


Listen, Potter; Look, Malfoy

by Noclue Idunno (NoclueIdunno)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Artist Draco Malfoy, Auror Harry Potter, Auror Ron Weasley, Blood Magic, Bottom Draco Malfoy, Caring Harry Potter, Dark Magic, Down and Out Draco Malfoy, Draco Malfoy & Ron Weasley Friendship, Fluff and Angst, Healer Hermione Granger, House Elves, Kind Harry Potter, M/M, Not Britpicked, Not Epilogue Compliant, Persecutory Delusion, Pining Harry Potter, Protective Harry Potter, Recluse Draco Malfoy, Sad Draco Malfoy, Sad with a Happy Ending, Slow Burn, Top Harry Potter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-14
Updated: 2020-01-31
Packaged: 2020-12-16 06:54:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 19,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21032069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoclueIdunno/pseuds/Noclue%20Idunno
Summary: "We have an accident with Draco Malfoy," Kingsley tells him flatly."An accident?" Harry asks. "You sure it's not an incident? This is Malfoy, after all."Kingsley raises an eyebrow at the all too casual tone."Sir," Harry adds sheepishly."We aren't sure of the nature of this... case, so an accident it will be presently," says Kingsley, pouring a glass of firewhisky. "And owing to your successful dealings with Draco Malfoy in the past, this case is for you."Harry groans. Why is it always me. "Let's hear it," he says.YOU DO NOT HAVE PERMISSION TO POST THIS ON WATTPAD. I NEVER WRITE ON WATTPAD. DEAR READERS, IF YOU SEE THIS STORY ON WATTPAD, PLEASE, REPORT IT, BECAUSE I WRITE ON AO3 AND AO3 ONLY.





	1. Prologue: The Case

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Harry Potter is owned by J.K. Rowling and isn't mine. No copyright infringement intended. I gain nothing from this. This is a fanfiction offered freely to HP fans.

"We have an accident with Draco Malfoy," Kingsley tells him flatly.

"An accident?" Harry asks. "You sure it's not an incident? This is Malfoy, after all."

Kingsley raises an eyebrow at the all-too-casual tone.

"Sir," Harry adds sheepishly.

"We aren't sure of the nature of this... case, so accident it will be presently," says Kingsley, pouring a glass of firewhisky. "And owing to your successful dealings with Draco Malfoy in the past, this case is for you."

Harry groans. _Why is it always me_. "Let's hear it," he says.

"An impenetrable barrier-- yes, impenetrable, Harry, don't give me that look; not even the Unspeakables could dismantle the barrier surrounding Malfoy Manor."

"An impenetrable barrier." Harry says.

"A impenetrable barrier," Kingsley nods, "that you are supposed to work with. A tangible blood-red Ward that prevents all entry into the Manor grounds. It doesn't seem to react to any existing anti-Ward spells. The Unspeakables are positive, however, that the magical anchor of this barrier is decidedly Dark. The magical weave of the barrier fluctuates and changes at an alarming rate. Our counter-curse development can't catch up with that."

"What do you want me to do, then?" Harry taps his foot. "You can't honestly expect me to break what your genius Unspeakables can't."

"You are to Apparate to the Manor posthaste, and find out what the hell is going on. Try to parley with Draco Malfoy, if possible."

"Parley?" Harry asks, aghast. "Are we expecting resistance?"

"This is a Dark Ward, Harry. With the Malfoy seniors dead, Draco is the most likely caster of this barrier. The peace we have now is a fragile one, we don't want to alarm the public with the news of unidentified Dark Magic. We've cordoned off the area, so you won't have reporters snooping about. If Draco Malfoy had indeed performed Dark Magic, we have no choice but to... detain him for the safety of the public."

"You make it all sound awfully simple," Harry grunts.

"I make it sound _simple_ because we don't even know what we're dealing with," Kingsley says in a clipped tone. "We-- forget it. -I- don't want a situation, Potter. -I- don't want to dirty my hands with young blood again. We had enough blood spilled during the War, and Albus Dumbledore will toss and turn in his grave if the student he gave his life to protect died for nothing. The only reason you're on this case is because it is least likely to result in casualties. I am absolutely certain that you wouldn't like watching Draco Malfoy die when we somehow manage to break that Ward, regardless of your past school rivalry."

Draco Malfoy, Dead. Draco Malfoy, who he rescued out of the Fiendfyre that night, dead, sprawled muddy and bloody on wet ground. Draco Malfoy, who once challenged him with annoying grey eyes, dead, staring into nothingness. Draco Malfoy, who cried openly in the courtroom when his parents were sentenced to death by _Avada Kedavra_, dead. No. Harry didn't save the pointy git's life for him to die in his own home, mangled and miserable. No. No, no, no.

Malfoy should live, he should atone for his choices by living. Harry sighs. He knows now that Draco Malfoy is the bane of his tiring, caffeine-addicted, cigarette-stinking, criminal-fighting existence. It's always been Draco fucking Malfoy. Merlin and Morgana.

Harry salutes Kingsley, and turns to Apparate. _Fine, Malfoy. Let's see what mischief you're up to this time. I hope you haven't fucked up too royally for me to pull you out._

=====


	2. The Barrier

Harry materialises on the outskirts of the Manor, some two-hundred metres away from the main gates of the ancestral residence of Malfoy family. He chooses to walk to the majestic white building, admiring the smell of trees and the freezing gust of winter. The chill of winter always refreshes his mind. Harry sucks in the cold air deep into his lungs, shivering slightly as he felt icy tremor reverberating through his limbs. But his pleasant walk is disturbed by the ominous sight that assails him when he really looks at Malfoy Manor up close.

Kingsley wasn't exaggerating when he said the Manor is surrounded by a blood-red Ward.

A thin, glowing dome of magical energy covers the Manor, buzzing and crackling with crimson sparks of magic. On the outer side, Harry sees a group of Ministry agents fiddling with the barrier. Most are Aurors in their uniforms. Some others are hooded; face and voice both distorted magically. Unspeakables. Harry spots a ginger-haired civilian a bit awkward in the company of officials, in clothing that one finds only in a rock concert.

"Bill," Harry calls, tapping his shoulder.

"Heya," Bill grins. The movement of his facial muscles accentuate the gruesome scars that Greyback left long ago. "Kingsley said I'd find you soon enough."

"How come everyone knows that I'm on this case before I do?" Harry sniffs.

"Well, it's not the first time for the Boy-Who-Lived, is it," Bill laughs, and smacks Harry's back loudly as Harry grimaces. "Oh, come on, Harry. You should get used to special treatment. It'll make life easier for you."

"Hmm," Harry doesn't know what to say to that.

Bill smiles and shrugs. "Trust a quarter-Veela and half-Werewolf couple to know all about special treatment," he winks. Harry feels bad.

"Don't make that face, Harry. We're both totally over that. Fleur makes me do the roar to scare nosy prats away sometimes." Bill raises his hands and opens his mouth wide in a mock-scare. Bill's always a bright glow that lightens up the day, and Harry is a bit envious how easily Bill cheers up the atmosphere around him.

"So I guess Kingsley called you in for curse-breaking," Harry says.

Bill nods once, and gestures towards the red barrier. "Never seen anything like it before. I encountered some incredibly Dark curses in the Pyramid of the Mage-Kings last year in Egypt, but even those have nothing on this Ward. The magic's incredibly Dark, Harry. We've got three Unspeakables incapacitated trying to undo the barrier."

A hooded figure approaches them.

"Mr. Weasley, I must insist that you refrain from mentioning Unspeakable details unless absolutely necessary," s/he says.

"Well, then try to do your job better," Bill quips jokingly. "No offence, but when I heard the Department of Mysteries is sending its own curse-breakers, I was miffed. But you folks, your reflexes aren't that fast, huh, compared to what you know. You need more field experience."

Harry can see the Unspeakable's shoulders tensing.

"Are you people even properly treating those three?" Bill continues, although Harry senses that Bill knows the Unspeakable is annoyed. "The way you spirit them away to your Department, I'm not all that sure. I'm all for St. Mungo's myself. You know Fabian Thornpole? He's a world-leading Healer for Ancient Curse Injuries. Always gets his job done when I'm in his care."

The Unspeakable replies, and somehow Harry thinks he hears quick breaths. "The Department of Mysteries, Mr. Weasley, has means beyond the ken of _civilian_ curse-breakers and _hospital_ healers to care for the health and welfare of its employees."

Bill shrugs, undoing his ponytail only to redo it more tightly. "Suit yourself. But should _you_ get hurt, I'm gonna send you straight to Mungo's myself, before your friends have time to say A for Apparate."

The Unspeakable skitters away instead of replying.

"Bill?" Harry calls him in half-question.

"Sorry, Harry," Bill grins shyly. "Ever since I got Greyback's claws in my face, I just can't seem to back down from a challenge. It's always an all-out brawl or verbal quarrel. Nowadays, I use my mouth more than my fist, though. I think Fleur's rubbed off on me." Bill winks suggestively, and Harry blushes at the filthy joke.

"Yeah... well, sure," Harry stammers. He was never good with girls, and he still can't stand joking about girls that way. Something seems off. Hell, he is more comfortable without Ginny or any other girls dangling on his arms. Harry hopes Bill doesn't know that bit. "So... anything more about the Ward?"

"It doesn't react to standard anti-barrier Charms," Bill says. "We've tried everything from _Alohomora_ and _Finite Incantatem _to _Partis Temporus_, but everything just bounces off the barrier. The Unspeakables worked their Counter-Curses, whatever they were I don't know. But I think they had some Dark Magic thrown in those Counter-Curses, I could sense it."

"The Unspeakables used Dark Magic?" Harry asks.

"Uh, no, mate, not like that," Bill adds quickly. "I meant they had traces of Dark Magic mixed in the spells they cast on the barrier. Whatever they were, those spells didn't work. The barrier absorbed those spells like sponge, though. So we're almost sure that Malfoy's Ward is powered by Dark Magic."

"Malfoy's Ward? How do you know that Malfoy cast the spell?" Harry asks hotly. He doesn't know why, but he doesn't like Bill jumping to conclusions.

"Hey, chill, Harry," Bill says, his pupils dilated and bright. "I can smell you're a little angry. But what can I say, the barrier protects Malfoy's home, doesn't it?" Bill continues after a moment. "Why are you so worked up over Malfoy?"

This time, Harry shrugs. He remembers imagining Malfoy's cold, dead body on muddy soil, and shudders briefly. Bill doesn't miss that, but chooses not to call Harry out on it.

Trying to change the subject, Harry asks other questions. "So why were they... incapacitated?"

Bill's expression turns grim.

"When their brand of spells and charms failed to dismantle the Ward, the Unspeakables procured Magical gloves and tried to prod the barrier with brute force," Bill says. "To be honest, I was shocked at the amateur try, but that turned to... I don't know, anger? when I found that they were _ordered_ to do so, and obeyed without questions."

"You mean, senior Unspeakables ordered their field agents to touch Dark Magic," Harry repeated. "Not surprising, they try to get their hands on every bit of unknown magic whenever they happen on something new."

"That's likely their purpose. I'm not an Unspeakable, but we know, don't we Harry, that Unspeakables understand magic differently than we do. Not Light or Dark, but thematically. You saw, right? The Chambers. Love, Time, and other things."

Harry sees Bill obscuring the rest to avoid speaking of Sirius, and he feels grateful. Harry's over their deaths after meeting them in the Beyond, but he still prefers not speaking about painful memories.

"I think, in the end, that whatever magic the Unspeakables worked on the barrier was thematic, too. Magic that deals with something bigger, Harry. Something thematic. Like... Emotion, perhaps? I don't know."

"Did you cast anything there that only you know?" Harry asks curiously.

"Yes, I actually did," Bill answers animatedly, and Harry sees the genuine interest Bill has in his vocational subject. Harry's reminded of Hermione. Bill continues in hushed tones. "It's fascinating, really. I tried variants of ancient Counter-Curses, and the barrier rejected everything. But it reacted to one magic and one magic only. Very mildly though, and I did this while the Unspeakables were busy, so don't tell them. I used Blood Magic, Harry."

"Isn't Blood Magic Dark?"

"Depending on your perspective. Harry, I thought Aurors were supposed to know these things? Horcruxes are Blood Magic, requiring sacrifices. But so are Sacrificial Protection and Bond of Blood charms. Stop relying too much on Hermione. Ron's been a bad influence on you, huh?"

"One-hundred percent catch rate, though. I don't need Blood Magic for that, right?" Harry grins widely.

"Well, if we can't crack that barrier, you're gonna ruin that perfect rate." Seeing Harry's expression darken again, Bill raises his hands. "Seriously, Harry, stop reacting every second I mention Malfoy. Ron told me you were obsessed with him back in sixth-year, but aren't you over that now?"

"I just... Kingsley says he put me on this case to ensure Malfoy's brought in alive, Bill. I don't want to think about what apprehending Malfoy entails just now."

Bill nods. "Okay. I'll try not to imply anything. I said I'll try, though, so don't expect me to suddenly change my stance. We started this operation with the extreme prejudice that Malfoy's the caster of the Ward."

"Sure. Tell me more about the Blood Magic?"

"I said Blood Magic, didn't I? But I just tossed a full bowl of my blood on the barrier."

"Bill!" Harry yells. He lowers his voice when some Aurors stare their way. "Bill! That's not even magic. I'm trying to keep Malfoy alive here, and resolve this case ASAP. Tell me something useful."

"Would you let me finish, mate?" Bill says in exasperation. "It is essentially Blood Magic if you are a Magical Creature."

Harry blinks several times until it hits him. "Right. My bad. I won't interrupt again, so tell me what happened."

"Tendrils formed on the barrier's surface, but disappeared after reaching for my blood."

"Tendrils?" Harry asked again, and Bill smiled.

"Questions after questions. These things happen when you're not briefed enough. Look, it's better if you see for yourself, but not right now. I want to keep this between us for the moment."

Harry throws Bill yet another questioning look.

Bill answers the wordless question. "I'm in a team here, but I'm also my own curse-breaker. Part of the reason I agreed to come was because they said the Ward was _unbreakable_. I told you, I don't back down from challenge anymore. For that to happen, I need some time to figure things out on my own. And I don't want needless blood spilled, especially if it's the blood of another Magical Creature. Which is bound to happen if Ministry agents find out. Present company excluded. But for now, Harry, let's go around to that corner. I'll show you what happens."

=====


	3. The Encounter

When they reach the isolated corner safe from the scrutiny of Ministry personnel, Bill fishes for a small knife from his robe pockets. He nicks his little finger and waits for the tiny bead of blood to form on the cut. Bill taps his finger with his want to enchant a small drop to float slowly to the barrier. As the bead of blood closes on to the Ward, the adjacent surface turns dark crimson and more visible, as if the crackling energy became solid material. When the blood finally touches the surface, semi-corporeal tendrils rise and collapse onto the spot where the blood fell. The anomaly was brief, however. The surface soon becomes undisturbedly smooth again.

"There! Did you see that?" Bill says, excitement flushing his ears like Ron. "It's a magic ward, but it feels alive."

Harry notices that Bill has a unique reaction to something the Aurors, on the other hand, would react with paranoia. Harry sees the difference: in his line of work, Aurors tend to skip understanding and arrive straight to the combat, whereas Bill tries to figure out first how the magic works. Like Hermione. Harry wonders what makes Bill so different from his other impulsive siblings. And then it occurs to Harry that perhaps, just perhaps, this is what he needs here. He needs to understand before making a judgement. He needs to know, no, _feel_ how things are before he actually does something without knowing the consequences.

"I wonder what will happen if I try it," Harry muses, staring at the pocket knife Bill is twirling in his hands.

"Well, doubt there'll be any reaction," says Bill. "I mean, you don't exactly smell like a Magical Creature, Harry."

"No harm in trying, is there?" Harry says. Bill shrugs and Scourgifies the knife before folding it.

Harry catches the knife with a thanks. He blinks for a split second in pain as the blade cuts his skin. He copies what Bill did minutes ago wandlessly. "Show off," Bill says, and Harry smirks. Bill's scoff turns into a _wow_ of amazement as tendrils form on the barrier. But there are more this time. The tentacles are thicker and nimbler at the same time, and they don't disappear immediately even after the tiny drop of blood is absorbed completely by the barrier. The ward makes a gurgling noise, and emits a deep groan as silence returns.

"You just have to do everything the special way, don't you," Bill says. "Be honest, mate, are you some kind of Magical Creature that we haven't found so far?"

"Last time they did a blood test on me at St. Mungo's, I was still your average wizard," Harry replies amusedly.

Still speaking, Harry throws the folded knife back at Bill, who catches it with a neat Werewolf reflex. Harry thinks of crups and Fanged Frisbees. If Bill had a tail, he would have been wagging it for more. Using Bill's distraction, Harry casts several swift Severing Charms on his wrist and arm. The spell slashes deep, and seconds later blood starts to spurt.

Bill's neck snaps towards him so fast that Harry hears the joints popping. Bill's pupils dilate and his nostrils flare at the smell of fresh, abundant blood.

"Harry, what the hell are you doing," he barks out gruffly. "We don't know how the ward will react to that much blood of yours."

"Well, Bill, in my experience, the best way to deal with Draco Malfoy is to test the unknown," Harry says, clenching his teeth to withstand the stinging pain that quickly intensifies into piercing ache.

"Mate, I'm not joking. you're working my appetite up, too," Bill remarks. There is a guttural growl in his voice, and Harry's joking mood disappears completely.

"Sorry Bill, I'll make this quick," Harry says, enchanting every stream of blood to the ward's direction. It stings like hell, but Harry doesn't let a sound escape his throat.

The gleaming surface of the barrier bubbles again more violently as spurt after spurt of blood hits it. Thick, veiny tendrils emerge from beneath the surface and grow into giant tentacles that wrap around Harry's limbs, pulling him in fast. Harry hears Bill's cry of alarm and shouts, "No back-ups until I'm back!". The ward did not break as he planned, but at least Harry's managed to enter the other side. Harry closes his eyes and shudders as he sinks into the wetly cold draw of the barrier's magic.

==========

The Manor looks little changed since his last visit. Albino peacocks still preen about in the now snowy meadows, and frozen water glistens, reflecting the white winter sunlight that bears the last of the previous season's faded warmth. Harry half expects the air to be stagnant, but the fresh and frigid wind inside the ward mirrors the outside. So air can pass freely in between, he thinks.

A willowy silhouette sitting by the lakeside enters his view.

Malfoy is watching snow falling on the frozen surface of the lake. Harry hears the almost imperceptible, soft scratchy sound of falling snowflakes amplified by the silence all around. And then, _there,_ Harry realises that he has never seen Malfoy in reverie all his life. There Malfoy is sitting, on a lakeside bench, stick thin and flagpole straight, the wispy cloud of his even breaths and the constant fall of the snow the only indicators that time is still moving. A gust of wind shakes the frame of Harry's vision. He shields his face with an arm, drawing in a sharp breath as the chilling wind buffets his face.

Malfoy doesn't move an inch. He looks almost dead, this close now Harry can see that Malfoy's eyes have glazed over as glassy as the mirror surface of the lake. Harry double checks for the wand at the ready in his sleeve, then casts a wandless silencing spell to muffle his footsteps. Harry thinks of the past years back at Hogwarts while he walks up towards Malfoy. Back then, he was a lot more protected and justified. He had a cause to stalk his evil nemesis, he had his father's cloak to shield himself from unwanted, prying eyes. He had Professor Dumbledore exonerating every transgression.

Things are different now. There are no Dark Lords to stop, there are no dozens of crazed laughing fanatics to avoid. There are, also, no friends that flank his side at every moment to be his brains or his extra muscles in his hour of need. Hermione's in St. Mungo's busy saving people's lives, Ron's on another mission. It's weird having to deal with Malfoy without his friends. Things are different now, he has to face the unfamiliar shade of his former nemesis--yes, former, for the years have passed already and he has no idea what kind of person Malfoy has become now. For some unfathomable reason Harry realises that sneaking up behind Malfoy is more intimidating than many lethal encounters he had had with criminals in his career. How must he greet-- greet? greet him? What explanation would he bring up for trespassing in the isolated home of Draco Malfoy, when the man hasn't done anything to upset the law? How will he treat Malfoy? As a criminal? A rival? A charity case?

A dozen more questions rise in him, and he is more confused inside this enigmatic ward than he was on the outside. All these questions still unanswered, he finally reaches the spot Malfoy is sitting. Should he cast a spell first? Should he tap Malfoy's shoulder, or should he simply call his name?

Harry then sees that Malfoy in fact might have been so immobile all this time simply because he's nearly frozen to death. There aren't even involuntary shivers marring Malfoy's stony posture on the bench. Malfoy is dressed in linen shirt and a pair of black trousers, with only a summer robe as the outwear. Malfoy's shirt is unbuttoned to his chest, and Harry sees that Malfoy's skin there has turned ghostly pale around the thin scar of Sectumsempra he has given him. Images of a dead Malfoy attack his mind again, and that spectacle, thank Merlin, answers the doubts that have been filling his mind along his tracks: Harry's body acted first on reflex.

"Malfoy!" Harry shouts repeatedly, grabbing Malfoy's shoulders and shaking him violently. With every shake Malfoy's breath seems to get more laborious, until he wheezes and gags, eyes teary and nose runny. In quick succession, Harry casts a Warming Charm and an Anapneo, and brandishes his wand to show Malfoy's vitals; rudimentary Healing spells that all Aurors are compelled to master.

A glimmer of recognition returns to Malfoy's previously dead, dull eyes. They widen in fear, however, and Harry emits a soundless scream as waves of unbearable pain strike his hands: Malfoy cast something on him. Cursing under his breath for dropping his guard like an amateur (even in this vital moment Ron's voice echoes in Harry's memory--_That's why, mate, Stupefy first, questions later_), Harry flicks his wrist, palming the wand that slides into his grasp. Another flick, and Malfoy flies into a tree, hitting the trunk, and with a strangled yelp crumples on the ground, out cold.

This time, Harry swears audibly. "Oh shit, oh shit..."

The greater part of Harry's mind transforms into Hermione Granger in Healer's robes, hands on her waist in full fury mode. _Control, Harry, control! These are people you are dealing with!_

A flash of memory offers him again the dreadful scene of a bathroom: broken glass everywhere, Malfoy on the floor, irony tang of flowing blood seeping between the cemented tiles of the bathroom. Harry tells himself, however, this time it's not Sectumsempra. This time he merely used a slightly overpowered Expelliarmus. He rushes to Malfoy, checking for his pulse while Malfoy's curse spread slowly on his hands. Harry nearly passes out from the pain, but he manages another Warming Charm and an Ennervate.

Harry's hands are bloated purble, oozing black blood that smells absolutely foul. The curse is slowly creeping up to his forearm. Episkey and Finite don't work, only accelerating the progress of the curse. The pain is excruciating: it is almost like Crucio, but concentrated on his arms. Growling in pain and anger that Malfoy dared to use a Dark Curse to an Auror, Harry shakes Malfoy violently again with his feet. He kicks him angrily, but controls himself so that he doesn't hurt Malfoy.

"Malfoy!" Harry yells as a cord of muscle on his arm twists painfully, something inside snapping to give free flow to pus and rotting blood. "Wake the fuck up and undo whatever you cast! It's killing me!"

"What..." Malfoy blinks blearily before coming into full coherence. "Potter! You! Get out! What're you even doing here?" He thrashes to distance himself from Harry's side, but stops when a huge glob of rotting blood splats him on the cheek.

"Malfoy, you cast a Dark curse on me. Undo it. I don't want to know what's going to happen if it reaches my heart," Harry manages through his teeth. He regrets he hadn't the mind to erect a Protego before approaching Malfoy. Dealing with Malfoy always made him fumble and fluster, and it seems the slimy git still has a Merlin-knows-what hold over Harry's miserable, overworked, cold, hungry, and dying life. Fuck.

"My wand," Malfoy says, now fully conscious although his movements are markedly slow due to exhaustion. "I need my wand for that."

Harry shouts in frustration. "Fuck you, Malfoy! Just use my bloody wand and don't mess up, because if I die here, the whole world's gonna come for you!"

Malfoy shakes visibly at that. With a trembling hand, he grabs Harry's wand.

The unthinkable happens.

Brilliant sparks of silver and emerald light shoot from the tip, the way the right wand reacts to its chosen wizard in Ollivander's shop. Harry would have been surprised were it not for the curse inching up his arm to the shoulder now.

Regaining himself from the daze, Malfoy draws several intricate patterns on the air, and jabs the wand harshly into both Harry's arms, once on each arm. Harry cries out as the counter-curse pulls the Dark magic out from his body. His fingertips burst and his fingernails are ripped off, and streams of darkened blood are ejected out from the wounds. The purplish tint dissipates slowly, leaving Harry's limbs reddened with irritation and torture. The curse is lifted, but Harry keels over and collapses, too weak from loss of blood and the effect of Dark magic.

As his hearing dims, Harry hears Malfoy calling him shrilly, "Potter! Potter!". Harry's last thought before he falls into blissfully painless unconsciousness is of his perhaps unsuitable choice of career. He's not a good Auror, he thinks, especially against half-frozen ferrets. Harry snorts out a self-derogatory laugh and faints.

==========


	4. The Two

Harry wakes to two noisy squawks engaged in heated dialogue. Sleeping in is a habit he wouldn’t throw off even after his school years. Multiple alarm charms and Kreacher’s ruthless Chilling charms are the two things capable of preventing him from Apparating too late to the Ministry gates.

“The half-blood is a nuisance to Master Draco,” a deep male voice decides gravely. Feeling threatened, Harry tries to move his limbs but his body doesn’t react. Harry feels his heartbeat quickening with adrenaline before a female voice squeaks,

“The half-blood is Master Draco’s guest! Mipsy does not allow Rinky to attack Master Draco’s guest.” Harry hears that the female voice is old and shaking.

“Then Mipsy is a bad house elf, Mipsy can’t protect her master’s interests,” Rinky mocks.

“Rinky is an insolent house elf!” Mipsy launches an outraged retort. “Mipsy is the Head Elf of the House of Malfoy! Mipsy is late Master Lucius’s nanny, and late Mistress Narcissa’s handelf! Rinky should obeys Mipsy!”

“Mipsy is old house elf,” says Rinky. “Mipsy is not understands Rinky has stronger magic. Rinky protects Master Draco better than Mipsy!”

“Then Rinky is a foolish house elf,” Mipsy snorts. “Rinky is not understands, the half blood is Harry Potter. If Rinky kills the half blood, Aurors will come for Master Draco. Rinky must iron his toes for harming Master Draco with his stupidity.”

At a loss of words, Rinky shakes in rage, while Mipsy is positively glowing. Draco chooses that moment to enter the bedroom.

“Are you two at it again?” Draco narrows his eyes while the two elves bow low, nose touching the carpet. “I’m tired of stopping you from punishing yourselves whenever I find you squabbling.”

“Rinky begs Master for his gracious forgiveness,” Rinky says, still not rising from his stooped position. “Rinky will indeed iron his toes respecting the rules of House Malfoy.”

“Mipsy will stretch her ears with a pincer for a night,” Mipsy quickly follows suit.

Draco sighs. “This will be the last time I repeat, so listen intently. You’re both my property, so don’t damage yourselves. I don’t like my possessions flawed. If I ever hear about pincers and irons again, I will _clothe_ both of you.” At the mention of clothes, both elves cower in fear.

Draco smiles in satisfaction. “If that’s settled,” he says, “Here’s my second command: You will attend Potter’s needs as befits a guest of a Pureblood household. And I hope that’s enough reassurance for you, Gryffindork, open your eyes. I know you aren’t sleeping.”

Harry blushes for his botched pretence. He opens his eyes slowly. A wizened female house elf looks on impassively, while Rinky glares at him in a fashion that would have made old Lucius proud. Malfoy himself looks more alive. A lively glow has returned to his cheeks, and the skin visible under his shirt is no longer so pale. Malfoy doesn’t look like a corpse anymore, and Harry lets go of the breath he doesn’t knew he has been holding.

“Mipsy, go fetch another Pepper-up and something warm for Potter to eat,” Malfoy says carefully.

“Nice last supper,” Harry says sarcastically. There’s no way Malfoy means such hospitable words.

“Do you prefer frozen venison in the great outdoors then?” Malfoy retorts, arching an eyebrow. “From what I’ve learned from yourself, apparently your well-being is of paramount importance for me and mine. And lose that scowl, Potter. Makes you uglier. I don’t like looking at ugly people. We wouldn’t have come across one another if you hadn’t trespassed my house.”

“The half-blood is ungrateful,” Rinky hisses. “Mipsy is fetching the last of the Manor’s Pepper-ups, and the half-blood grumbles.”

“Well, it’s thanks to your Master Ferret I even need a bloody Pepper-up,” Harry says hotly. He’s angry that everyone’s talking as if he’s in some grand debt. And in his anger, Harry loosens his tongue without thinking. “Old habits die hard, eh, Malfoy? You got some fucking nerve to cast Dark magic on an Auror. Death Eater much, huh. You should thank your lucky stars I didn’t return the favour. Remember DADA? You never beat me, not once. Thanks for the nice room, by the way. I believe it’s free of charge?”

Malfoy’s eyes flash dangerously for a split second, and Harry wants to bite his stupid tongue. That wasn’t so professional.

Malfoy stares at him up and down as if he’s the worst dungheap in the world. Malfoy hums in a bored tone, and Harry’s angrier that Malfoy’s not incensed. He wants to hex Malfoy or punch him, but he’s too weak right now. And there are elves with Malfoy. Yeah, Malfoy’s never taken Harry by himself. He always needed a pair of underlings to flank him.

“Free of charge?” Malfoy sneers. “The hell it is. You _will_ pay, Potter, and in newly-minted galleons of course, all the expenses you incur during your uninvited and hazardous stay in the Manor.” Malfoy crosses his arms.

Harry splutters. “The fuck? I saved your ferrety arse. You cast that curse on me and I nearly died.” Harry thinks he knows what Malfoy is going to say next. He finds that his anticipation is well-placed.

“Am I not entitled to defend my fragile self against trespassing miscreants? Is use of lethal force not permitted in case one’s innocent life is threatened unprovoked?”

“But I saved you!” Harry yells. “You were about to be an ice ferret out there and I fucking saved you!”

“Get over yourself and pull your oversized scarhead out of your arsehole, you unworthy prat. I didn’t ask you to save the day, and yet you have the gall to price your _noble_ ations. You didn’t save me. You meddled. I know you miss being the centre of the world’s attention, but not everyone is going to fall on their knees and prostrate before the oh-so-selfless Saviour.” Malfoy laughs as the sheet bunches in Harry’s fist.

A vase explodes in the corner of the room. Malfoy swishes his wand and the shards reassemble. “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Malfoy rolls his eyes. “You’re not impressing anyone with your powerplay, you uncouth barbarian. Do stop vandalising my properties, Auror Potter. Kindly get well soon and get the hell out of my house.”

With an impressive show of billowing robes, Malfoy exits grandiosely. Mipsy returns with a tray of steaming vial and a bowl of chicken soup. The room is soon filled with a tantalising fragrance of warm chicken soup. Harry finds his mouth watering despite his anger. It’s real, then, he thinks, I’m being nursed and treated to chicken soup in the Malfoy Manor. Although the ferret’s not too nice about it. Harry looks back to the catastrophic dialogue that occurred moments ago. Why did he react so badly? He had enough gold to support himself and many others even without working. He could have simply nodded and everyone would have been satisfied. Hell, he would have been able to receive Malfoy’s hospitality without batting an eyelash, knowing he had purchased the right and is entitled to savour it freely. Great, Harry thinks, there goes my chance of finding out what’s up with the Manor’s ward through a nice, civil chat. Another bad choice, another failure as an Auror. Is it a failure really, though? Harry muses in retrospect. Not exactly. But with Malfoy, a conversation gone awry seems failure enough. Harry gets significantly uncomfortable as he realises he wants to have a lovely talk with Malfoy. Wait. Lovely? Where did that word come from? Must be Molly’s influence.

After many grunts and efforts, Harry finally manages to sit in the bed. As he reaches for the tray Mipsy set in his lap, Harry grabs the vial with now healed fingers. Someone must have Healed his wounds while he was out cold. He downs the vial in several gulps due to dried throat. Steam whistles out of his ear and nose, expelling the chill that blood loss and exposure brought to his body. Everything becomes more bearable.

“Harry Potter must know, sir,” Mipsy says in a hushed voice. “Master Draco’s supplies are limited. Sir’s presence in the Manor hurts Master’s emergency stash.”

Rinky directs a withering glance at him. Refusing to flinch, Harry asks the elf, “You have some problem with me?”

“The half-blood dares raise his voice in the Manor!” Rinky wails. “Oh, my poor dear Mistress Narcissa, what will she say if she sees her Manor sullied by the filth among filths?”

Rather than being offended (Harry finds it’s easier to think with a cool head now that Malfoy’s away), Harry can’t help but notice the uncanny similarity between Rinky and Kreacher. “You’re not related to Kreacher by any chance, are you? You speak exactly like him.”

“Kreacher is Rinky’s uncle,” Mipsy answers in the agitated elf’s stead. “Rinky came to the Manor when Mistress Narcissa married into this house.”

“If it makes you feel better to know, Rinky,” Harry says in renewed friendliness, “Or perhaps you already know. It was your Mistress Narcissa who saved me from certain death. Your uncle Kreacher fought against Voldemort at my side, too.”

“Harry Potter did not save poor Master Draco’s parents,” Rinky whispers, and Harry’s head goes blank white, not knowing what to say. Rinky disappears with a loud _crack_.

Harry tries to calm the bubbling anger about to brim over. The tray on his lap rattles. He hates it when people blame him for not saving everyone. He’s not all-powerful, he just has a little bit more magical power than the average wizard. He’s not even sure he’s more powerful than Voldemort. Voldemort practically defeated himself, didn’t he. He doesn’t want, no, can’t save everyone. Although he came here, ironically, to save Malfoy.

“Please forgive Rinky’s rudeness, sir,” Mipsy says hastily, noticing that Harry’s spoon is starting to bend. She snaps her fingers to reheat the chicken soup that went lukewarm. She waits expectantly for Harry to straighten the spoon back. The warm, savoury broth calms Harry’s temper. Harry chews on a piece of almost melting potato that breaks into a mush easily in his mouth. Putting something into his mouth and chewing gives him time to contemplate how to tread with Malfoy and the elves.

“Tell me something, Mipsy,” he begins, and the old elf stiffens in alarm, no doubt aware of what Harry’s going to say. “You know why I’m here, don’t you?”

“Mipsy and Rinky be knowing why Harry Potter is coming here today,” she says. “But Mipsy and Rinky will not betray Master Draco’s secret.”

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Harry smiles, “It’s Master Draco’s secret, is it?”

Mipsy’s drooping tennis ball eyes bulge in shock. “Bad Mipsy! Bad Mipsy!” she bawls. “Mipsy betrayed Master Draco’s secret!” She finds a duster in the corner somewhere and whips her head with it. Dust flies everywhere.

Harry grimaces at both the self-flagellation and the dust about to land into his bowl. He shields the bowl with a hand. “Stop it, please,” Harry says, “Stop hurting yourself and stop dirtying my food. Malfoy wants me to pay, doesn’t he, I won’t pay for dusty food.”

The duster stops mid-air.

“I’m not here to arrest Malfoy or anything,” Harry says between bites. “I’m here to help him, Mipsy. The Ministry is already high on alert. You know those are Aurors and Unspeakables out there, don’t you? Kingsley—that’s the Minister—asked me to protect Malfoy’s life in case, uh, something happens.”

“Harry Potter saved Master Draco from the Fiendfyre,” Mipsy says.

“Yeah, Harry Potter did,” Harry nods. He hates being associated with saving-people thing, that’s true, but it doesn’t feel all that bad when it’s about Malfoy. It does not only prove he’s better than Malfoy, but it also feels nostalgic. Without Malfoy, somehow his routine is lacking. Malfoy was always there, wasn’t he, he was one of the constants in Harry’s life in a similar way to Hermione and Ron. He feels pleased, just as a student feels pleased under the beaming look of a Hogwarts professor after a _10 points to Gryffindor_.

Mipsy’s demeanour, however, then takes a grimmer turn. “But Mipsy also remembers how Harry Potter nearly killed Master Draco.”

Harry bristles at that. “That’s also true, but I didn’t know that Sectumsempra would do that to him. If I knew, I wouldn’t have cast it on him. I won’t say more about Malfoy’s fair share of almost-killing, too. It’s all in the past. I want to concentrate on the present. Right now the situation isn’t that good for Malfoy. If all it takes for me to get some info on what’s going on here is an apology, then I’ll do it. I’m sorry. No, it’s not sarcasm. I really am sorry. I don’t think I ever apologised properly for the Sectumsempra.”

Mipsy doesn’t answer him, but the lines around her eyes relax. Harry lets out a deep inward sigh.

“Mipsy was in the Manor attending Master Lucius’s guests during the long stay of the Dark Lord,” she says. “Mipsy knows Master Draco saved Harry Potter’s life, too.”

“Yeah,” Harry reminisces. The magnitude of his relationship to Malfoy feels heavier than ever. “Yeah. He did. We both owe our lives to each other. And I’m sure, Mipsy, that even after all this time, he doesn’t regret his decision, too. I for sure don’t. And I don’t ever plan to see him dead.”

The rims of Mipsy’s elfin eyes redden. Harry puts his spoon down and regards her as she takes out a piece of white fabric and blows her filling nose.

“Mipsy can’t disobey Master Draco’s direct orders,” she says, “But Mipsy begs Harry Potter. Please help Master Draco, Harry Potter, sir, for the memory of Mistress Narcissa who lied to He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named for your life. Mipsy helds Master Draco in her arms when he be a small baby.”

“I really need to know what’s happening here,” Harry says. “If you can’t tell me directly, Mipsy, then at least give me a hint so I can figure things out by myself. What in Merlin’s name is that red ward around the Manor?”

Mipsy tucks her hanky in. “Tis a question that Master Draco can answer best,” she says. “But for now, Harry Potter should rest to find his strength. He needs it for Master Draco later.”

==========


	5. The Mistake

It is already dark when he wakes up again after his nap. There's no one in the room. His limbs feel much lighter and the ache has now dissipated completely. Either Malfoy or the elves must have cast additional Healing spells while he was sleeping, Harry thinks. In a considerably better mood, Harry hops up out of bed, and heads to the small tea table where he spots a note.

"Dear Saviour," the note says, "Do mercifully remove your offensive presence from my house when your fat head clears enough to make some sense. In sincerest disgust, M."

Harry snorts and balls the parchment in his hands before he throws it to the corner of the room. Nope, he's not leaving. Not until he figures out what's up with Malfoy.

Leaving the bedroom, Harry thinks that it would be impossible for him to ever feel some semblance of homeliness in Malfoy Manor. The dimly-lit corridor extends far into empty darkness. Harry doesn't like dark places. But, he thinks, to Malfoy perhaps this darkness is home enough. When lights are out, Harry usually sees Sirius's frozen smile as he falls into the Veil, he sees the Basilisk spewing steaming venom as it slithers between the walls. This darkness had been the horror of his and his friends' captivity. He wonders, what does Malfoy see in the same darkness? He wonders why Malfoy doesn't keep his corridors well-lit if he's got a wand.

A sound echoes through the corridor. Higher, lower, louder, softer, like the interplay between the alternating lights and shadows of the hallway. Rhythmical. Melodious. At times purposeful, at moments unbound. Sounds. Notes. Sounds that make one nod along or tap fingers unawares. Harry allows his ears to guide him. Yes, it is Malfoy, there's no way the elves are playing that piano. The melody flows closer and closer. Nothing too intricate. The music is simple, and Harry realises that Malfoy is repeating the same part over and over again in different arrangements. Excruciatingly slow, and then merrily fast. Hauntingly reverberating, and then curtly disconnected.

When Harry reaches the end of the corridor, he finds a hexagonal open hall. A brown grand piano stands on a carpeted pedestal. The other half of the wall is built entirely out of solid glass, and Malfoy sits facing the nocturnal winter landscape visible through the glass wall. He's still playing. He doesn't realise Harry is watching him play. Harry's mind tells him to stop watching like a stalker. Malfoy's upper body sways languidly, matching the rhythm of the piano. It feels strange, it feels weird, foreign even. And it feels... forbidden? Like he's watching someone showering. The way Malfoy's normally aristocratic posture relaxing undone, emotion showing through the way his fingers glide over the keys. They're in the same room but Harry's listening to a sound so beautiful he's never associated with Malfoy before.

The melody stops suddenly. A discordant noise concludes the piece to rouse Harry out of his trance. Malfoy hunches over the keys, an arm pressing down on the keys for support. One of his hands hover over his chest, and he makes a wheezing sound as if he's having trouble breathing.

Harry rushes to Malfoy's side immediately as he falls from the piano stool. He Transfigures the stool into a haphazard sofa that seems too plushy to be comfortable, but he pushes Malfoy to lie down all the same. Malfoy's eyes widen in surprise. Even in his breathless condition Malfoy manages to say,

"Potter? What are you doing here?"

"Uh, I was, no, I wanted to ask you something," Harry says rather stupidly. He's suddenly too conscious of the proximity. Harry stands up from the sofa, leaving Malfoy to lie down by himself. "But nevermind, I'll ask later. I'll call the elves. They'll be able to handle this better than me."

"No!" Malfoy says hurriedly. "No, don't. Just... this will pass real soon."

"No, you're obviously not well. Mip--"

Harry suddenly finds his lips stuck together. He sees Malfoy directing his wand to him.

"I told you it's gonna pass, Potter," Malfoy says exasperatedly. He does sound better. He waves his wand once to release Harry from the spell. Harry's annoyed he's once again let Malfoy cast a spell on him. Why does he let his guard down with Malfoy, Harry wonders.

"What's wrong," Harry asks. Malfoy is still lying on the sofa. "Something's going on. That lakeside thing, and my wand working for you, and that hyperventilation just now-- they're all connected to that weird Ward, aren't they."

"I don't know what you're talking about." Malfoy sets his lips tight.

"Yes you do, why wouldn't you tell what's going on?"

Malfoy laughs loudly.

"What's so funny," Harry grumbles. "I've got to return to the Minister soon and brief him about the Ward, Malfoy. Depending on your answer, he may withdraw the agents or simply send an army of Aurors and Unspeakables to dismantle your barrier. That's Dark Magic you got there, right?"

Malfoy glares when Harry says Dark Magic.

"Go then," Malfoy challenges him. "Go, and tell Kingsley Shacklebolt that Draco Malfoy sacrificed Muggles to use their blood to fuel the Ward. Tell him I disemboweled them because only that method of killing can erect the Ward."

"You're not serious about that," Harry says. "It's a sick joke, though. And you don't have the guts to do that."

Malfoy stares at him defiantly.

"Wait, you are? Is that Ward really made out of Muggles?!"

Malfoy's wand shoots a hex that looks painful if hit. Harry ducks, and the hex ricochets off to hit a portrait on the wall. The wizard in it starts screaming murder, and Harry sees that the wizard's jutting out his tongue in pain, tongue elongated and tied like a ribbon.

"Get out!" Malfoy screeches, shooting hex after hex. Harry takes out his own wand and counters each one with Neutralising Charms and Protego. He doesn't know how this escalated into a full-blown duel, but he makes sure not to shoot any curse that can truly kill, staying on the defensive.

"Get out!" Malfoy screams again.

Malfoy has too many unguarded sides in his rage. Feigning a wand movement with his right hand, Harry casts a silent Petrificus Totalus with his left. The spell hits Malfoy's left thigh. Malfoy drops his wand, paralysed like a statue.

"Seriously," Harry breathes, "You think a civilian like you stands a chance against a trained Auror?" Harry procures a tiny vial of Veritaserum from his shirt lining. "You did mention blood sacrifice, though. You do know I'm on investigation, don't you? I'm really sorry, but you leave me no choice."

Malfoy's pupils dilate and his eyes start to water with tears of resentment as he watches Harry uncorking the Veritaserum. He gazes at Harry with a betrayed look.

As Harry lowers his arm to drop the liquid into Malfoy's mouth, the tears in Malfoy's eyes finally flow down his cheeks. Harry looks sideways. He isn't comfortable with Malfoy crying.

Harry stops his arm when he hears a heavy groan rattling the air. Glowing red tentacles latch onto the glass wall of the hexagonal hall. In a matter of seconds, the solid glass cracks and shatters. Giant tentacles of crimson energy shoot into the hall. Harry casts layers of Protego, but the tentacles simply pass through the Shielding Charms as if they didn't exist. The tendrils wind around Harry's body, and withdraws out of the hall through the broken glass hall with the same unbelievable speed they first appeared.

Harry yelps and tries to Apparate away, only to feel a sensation of a thousand pin-pricks on his body. Signs of impending Splinch. He hurriedly cancels the Apparation.

The tentacles emit blobby noises that sound dangerous, but do nothing else than flying through the air with a bound Harry. He sees the surface of the crimson Ward closing. This time, there is no wet sinking feeling. He passes right through the Ward as the tentacles of energy throw him beyond. Screaming in shock, Harry is catapulted through the air. He manages a Cushioning Charm as he falls into a pathetic heap outside the Ward.

==========

Around him Harry sees a number of Aurors and Unspeakables. And Bill. Bill doesn't look pleased. So much for secrecy. Now they all know that Harry's been to the other side of the Ward.

"Harry?" Bill says. "What happened? Are you alright? How did you get out?"

Oh. Harry mistook Bill's concern as displeasure. He's just worried.

"You could've sent a Patronus at least, mate. When you didn't respond for a day the Minister sent more Aurors in case things went wrong. I mean, there's no way they won't send backup if the Golden Boy's in danger, is there."

"I'm fine, I'm fine. There's no danger," Harry says. He's still a little bit dazed from being catapulted through the air.

"Mr Potter," an Unspeakable approaches, and Harry groans. Here it comes. "Mr Potter, this is a most fortunate turn of events," s/he says. "Please, we must away to the Department of Mysteries right away to discuss your experience with this fascinating Ward."

"Shut your trap," Bill growls, eyes glowing yellow and wolfish fangs bared. It's not full moon, but the moon hanging on the night sky still affects Bill's lycanthropic side. "Harry's reporting to the Minister, not you hooded twats."

"Mr Weasley!" The Unspeakable exclaims aghast. "I will not tolerate such disrespect from a Dark Creature!"

When Bill crouches to stand on all fours like a dog about to pounce, Harry pulls himself out of his daze.

"Please! Everyone, just calm down. Bill, and Mr Unspeakable-- Miss? Whoever you are. Everyone stop talking right now!"

Although Bill takes considerably longer than the rest to stop making sounds, he relents at long last. Harry makes a face that expresses in no uncertain terms that he wants, no, needs silence. When everyone finally shuts up, Harry continues.

"I need to talk to Bill," he says. The Unspeakables cross their arms, unhappy that they're left out. Harry adds, "I need to talk to Bill only."

"I must refuse," one of the Unspeakables say. "This is a joint project we're having here! You can't choose not to disclose crucial information to us, Mr Potter."

"As if you would have revealed crucial information to us," Harry retorts. "Come on now. Aren't you people so expert you don't need external assistance? Everyone knows that you are outside the Minister's jurisdiction even."

"Well, Harry, if they won't leave, then we switch places. Come on. Right around that corner. And you, don't even think about eavesdropping. I'll know from your smell when you try. I'll tear you a new one if you do," Bill threatens the Unspeakable with a growl.

==========

"So? Tell me everything," Bill says.

"It's Malfoy," Harry answers, "I think it's really Malfoy who erected that Ward. He said he sacrificed some Muggles for their blood. I don't believe it, but I had to be sure, so I paralysed him and tried to give him the Truth Serum. And the Ward reacted badly. There were tentacles like what we saw, only bigger. And I was thrown outside."

"Muggle blood?" Bill creases his eyebrows.

"Yeah, he said it. I asked him if he's serious, but he didn't answer. We shouldn't tell the Minister about it yet, Bill. I'll tell him myself."

"Oh, Harry," Bill says. He looks at him with pity mingled with condescension. Harry is confused.

"What?" Harry asks.

"Muggle blood can't be used for Dark Magic, Harry. It's true, there are really Dark spells that sacrifice humans, but only Wizard blood can produce any real effect. It's in this book, Tormump Vale's Treatise on Blood Power. It's one of the introductory books about Dark Magic. You really should've consulted Hermione first before you started. And I'm gonna give Ron a good scolding when I'm home. He's obviously been a bad influence if you're this ignorant about Magical theories. You guys need to read, Harry, not talk about Quidditch all the time. It's a shame what's happened, I'm sure Malfoy just taunted you."

Harry wants to slap himself.

He tried to force Veritaserum on Malfoy.

Now he knows the reason for Malfoy's tears. That look of betrayal.

Malfoy may have been a git, but he trusted Harry not to treat him as a Death Eater.

And Harry did just that.

Fuck.

==========


	6. The Denial

Still chastising himself for his failure, Harry Apparates to the Ministry the next morning to give an interim report to Kingsley. He didn’t sleep well: tentacles bound and whipped him in his dreams. Yawning and rubbing his gummy eyes he enters the Ministry in a bad mood. He sees a group of employees chatting animatedly. They stop mid-sentence to greet him, grinning widely as if they have known him all his life.

“Hiya Harry,” a man in bowler hat says, “What’s up?”

“Harry!” a mousy-haired woman squeals. “I haven’t seen you in, like, forever!”

Harry grits his teeth. He doesn’t like witches and wizards acting like he’s their husband or boyfriend or son or brother. He also thinks he actually recognises that witch from the lift last week, which is not forever. But he’s not going to let her know that. From his experience he knows now that people claim their right to invade his privacy if he graces them with any kind of acknowledgement. He remembers that distinct “like” between every other word. He hates it when people say so many “like”s. Especially when they’re stupid bints. Right now, Harry hates everything.

“Nothing’s up,” he barks brusquely, brushing the greetings away. He’s not in the mood to plaster an acknowledging smile or nod affably to strangers who just happen to work in the same place. He’s not in the mood, no. His mood’s not going to improve unless he finds some bloody miraculous way to bring that fucking Ward down so that Malfoy can keep his ferrety life and Harry can return to his own. Turning a blind eye on the miffed faces of the employees, Harry hurries to the Minister’s office.

Harry’s next roadblock turns out to be none other than Kingsley’s own secretary. The old cat—yeah, she’s an old cat especially now of all days, he thinks—is busy knitting something for whoever has the misfortune of being the honoured recipient of the gift. The thing, anything between a scarf and a jumper, looks far more hideous than the Christmas jumpers that Molly has weaved so far. Harry clears his throat several times to gain her attention, but the old cat doesn’t regard him.

“Candice,” he calls her. She either ignores or doesn’t hear him. He’s betting on the latter, though, because he knows she’s not deaf as she often pretends to be. She only does that with him. He doesn’t know why, but she makes it all too clear that she dislikes him. Although Harry avoids people who worship him, he’s never done well with refusal, too. Her expression of dislike is more subdued than Snape’s, but he suspects Candice despises him as much as Snape did. He doesn’t know why. He doesn’t want to know why. But she’s being an old pussy _now_ of all times, when Malfoy’s (Malfoy’s Ward, to be precise) been a bloody tosser for throwing him out just for wanting to know. He doesn’t realise that a night’s fitful sleep gave him time enough to build a defence against his own culpability. He doesn’t realise that he’s conveniently dubbed the Veritaserum as “wanting to know” in his mind.

“Candice!” Harry thunders. The old secretary finally raises her eyes from her knitting to really look at him.

“Dear Rowena! Mr Potter, excuse my old ears.”

“I’ve been standing here for a while,” Harry hisses between his teeth.

“Have you?” She says between innocence and deliberation, like her ugly knitwear that could just be anything. Harry is too sure that she intends to let him know she was being purposeful. He senses the anger inside him seething. Whatever is the reason for Candice to hate him, he’s not guilty, and he has no idea.

“I’m here to see the Minister,” he says.

“Have you booked an appointment?” Candice drawls. Harry hates the crisp sound of Candice’s _t._

“No, actually, no; I was occupied,” Harry answers, wishing his dear flaming temper not to explode.

“The Minister is a very busy man, Mr Potter.”

Harry shuts his eyes once tightly to calm himself. He counts to three. Then he opens them again. Thank Merlin for eyelids.

“I’m sorry, Candice. I should have. This won’t happen again. I’m here about Malfoy’s Ward.”

“In you go, Mr Potter,” Candice says.

Harry realises too late that he should have mentioned Malfoy’s Ward first. He’s even angrier that he’s gone through the nasty woman for nothing. _Ten points to Ravenclaw, ten points from Gryffindor_, he hears an imaginary Snape saying with a satisfied sneer.

==========

“Bad breakfast?” Kingsley says, seeing Harry’s teeth gnawing on his fingernails.

“Skipped,” Harry says curtly. “Sir,” he adds reluctantly.

“Join me,” Kingsley motions to the curried pasties on his table, taking a pasty himself. Perfect golden crusts. Only the best for the Minister.

Harry’s tummy rumbles. But he refuses, choosing to wallow in annoyance and self-blame. “No, thanks.”

“I insist,” Kingsley renews his offer. He picks the silver plate from the table and hands it to Harry. The sweet-spicy fragrance of curried potato and baked meat wafts into Harry’s nose. Harry takes one and nibbles. The crust crunches. He bites. The taste explodes in his mouth. And then he chews. He’s reminded of Mipsy’s chicken soup. Wasn’t he angry then, too?

“When I was your age,” Kingsley says, “I used to dread mornings. More if the night before saw someone’s death. Dark wizards, victims—I believed it was all my fault. Auror counselling didn’t help. Those Mind Healers don’t know the field as we do, after all.”

Harry lowers his hand. The pasty has his hands glistening with grease.

“Eat,” Kingsley says. Harry eats. “In the end it was my mother’s pasties that gave me strength to move on. It was far from enough, of course, but it was a start.” Kingsley’s eyes gaze into memories far away. “I miss her sometimes. And her pasties.” Kingsley smiles fondly. He winks.

Harry swallows with a gulp. His throat’s dry all of a sudden. Kingsley pours him a glass of water.

When Harry Scourgifies his greasy fingers, Kingsley says,

“So. Draco Malfoy. Incident or accident?”

“Incident,” Harry answers.

“Enlighten me. Clear and concise.”

“He’s shut himself in the Manor with two house elves. Mipsy and Rinky. Rinky’s Kreacher’s nephew, by the way. His elves hinted it’s Malfoy who cast that Ward. Malfoy didn’t deny it, too. He taunted me that he’s sacrificed Muggles. I didn’t know that Muggle blood can’t power Dark magic until Bill told me. But I believed the ferret’s lies and subdued him. I didn't know.”

“That’s it?” Kingsley asks.

Harry hesitates for a moment, but decides to tell the whole story.

“I tried to force Veritaserum on him.”

“Well, Mr Malfoy did mention a crime, taunt or not, so you only did your duty,” Kingsley says. “What happened next?”

“The Ward’s bloody thrown me out is what!” Harry yells. The pent-up anger spews out of him in full force. “These red slimy tentacles wrapped around me and literally threw me across the air.”

“Why are you so riled up, Potter?” Kingsley asks, eyebrows raised.

“Why wouldn’t I be?!” Harry raves. A fleck of spit hits Kingsley’s table. Kingsley looks at it. Ashamed, Harry wipes the table with his sleeve. “I was trying, no, I kept Malfoy’s arse from freezing in snow! He was sitting on this bench outside, wearing a shirt. He Cursed me when I approached. I almost died. But he wasn’t himself, he was panicking, and his elves nursed me back, so I think we shouldn’t charge him.”

Kingsley doesn’t say anything, but regards Harry with thoughtful eyes. Harry doesn’t notice it, and continues.

“Bill told me you sent backup. Maybe you know how I passed through that Ward, then.”

“I know. Bill Weasley told me everything.”

Harry falls silent. Kingsley grins.

“I knew it was right to send you. You’ve accomplished far more than anyone else have, Harry. Now that we know a Ministry agent—that’s you—can pass through the Ward unharmed, I’ll call the Aurors off.”

“Oh, you will?” Harry says. He suddenly feels much, much better. In fact, his anger’s gone entirely. He takes another pasty. Kingsley’s eyes twinkle in amusement as Harry bites into the pasty with gusto.

“Yes. The purpose of the mission was to determine the level of threat this Ward poses to public safety. I’m told some Unspeakables are knocked out, and you haven’t a scratch on you. That’s even less than what most Wards do to trespassers. Now I'm in doubt whether the Ward was indeed Dark to begin with.” Now that Kingley’s narrowed the whole problem down, Harry’s surprised he didn’t see it this way before. Yes, the red Ward is Dark, but its effect was far below most Wards. Except the icky tentacles.

“But I can’t withdraw the Unspeakables. The Department of Mysteries falls out of my authority,” Kingsley says. “In the meantime, why don’t you go back to the Manor and determine the nature of this Ward, since you’re the only person with a free pass? We won’t have the pretext to request the Unspeakables to stop unless we prove that this Ward is completely harmless. The spectacle of this red Ward, combined with Malfoy’s reputation, doesn’t help his case. So you’ll want to produce some quick results.”

“I’m not even sure the Ward’s gonna let me in after what’s taken place,” Harry says.

“Let’s see, shall we?” Kingsley says. He takes another pasty too.

Harry muses on the one secret he doesn’t tell Kingsley. His wand sparked as if it chose Malfoy. Perhaps he has a chance. Because his mouth is full, Kingsley simply nods to dismiss Harry.

Harry inclines his head happily to Candice on his way out. Candice seems annoyed he’s in a good mood. She purses her lips and knits with a surprising agility for a woman so old. _Ten points to Gryffindor, ten points from Ravenclaw, _the imaginary Snape says gloomily. This time, he’ll be prepared. He’ll talk to Hermione first, and look into some books. And have a nice lunch.

In his office, Kingsley Shacklebolt renews his determination to put the Department of Mysteries in line. Too long have they been allowed to have free rein over official Ministry operations. This is a rare opportunity. He feels slightly guilty for not telling Harry his thoughts, but at this point it’s better for him to remain oblivious. Harry Potter, after all, possesses a profound vehemence against everything political. Especially when it concerns Draco Malfoy, of course.

==========

“Harry!” Hermione waves her hand.

“Hey, Mione,” Harry smiles. Days are always endurable when Hermione’s bushy hair shades him from curious nosy glances.

“Treacle tart as usual?” Hermione asks, dropping three sugar cubes and a large stream of milk into Harry’s tea. They’re in Finnegan’s Shenanigans, a café Seamus opened just across St. Mungo’s. Harry shakes his head.

“No, actually. I want a proper lunch,” Harry says. “But I’ll have the tea, thanks.”

“Oh, Harry,” Hermione gathers her hands. “I’m so glad you’re finally minding your physique. You were starting to get a belly. Now you’ll be the Boy Who Loves for Witch Weekly again!”

“Shut it,” Harry says. Hermione bursts out laughing. Modelling for Witch Weekly was a disaster Harry never wants brought up, but Ron and Hermione seem very much inclined to mention it at every chance. He blushes when Hermione whispers in addition: “Statistics show that sales soared significantly among _male _subscribers, or so they say.”

“Why would you know about Witch Weekly sales?” Harry asks. “Didn’t you say only airheads like Lavender Brown read it?”

This time, it’s Hermione’s turn to blush. Healer stress had turned her attention towards the shadier part of literature. But she would never admit it, so she quickly changes the subject.

“To matters at hand,” she says in a dignified tone invoked rather hurriedly. Harry decides not to pursue the subject anymore. Hermione is not to be doubted when she imitates Professor McGonagall. Harry doesn’t think Mione’s aware she mimics the Professor when she’s flustered. “You did say it was urgent.”

“Yeah. It’s about Malfoy,” Harry blurts out.

“You always seem to use the word _urgent_ when it's about Malfoy,” Hermione says. "Sometimes you don't care at all but you always change your mind afterwards. The last time was when Astoria Greengrass broke her engagement to marry Nott instead. You laughed and said his ferrety character finally cockblocked him, but Millie told me you asked her later about Malfoy."

"Since when did you start calling Bulstrode _Millie,_" Harry asks.

"Since she became Field Healer for Aurors. You know Millie and I are friends, right? She's an impressive professional."

“I didn't say it was urgent back then," Harry says.

“If you say so."

"I really didn't!" Harry says loudly. Some guests look their way. Harry pushes his chair so Hermione's hair would cover him.

"Okay, Harry. But why are your, _ahem, _friends all thin and pointy?"

"_I'm just into twinks,_" Harry writes on the table with wandless magic. It disappears after Hermione reads it.

"If you say so," Hermione repeats. She taps her wand on the table. "_Why are they blond and pale, too, then?"_

"_You have it backwards, Mione. I've been into blond, pale, and, pointy twinks far before I knew Malfoy."_

"_You mean since you were ten? _" Hermione laughs. When she notices Harry's breaths getting erratic with his famous temper, she slides her wand back into her sleeve holster. "Okay. I believe you. Let's get down to business, Harry."

Harry slouches in his chair, annoyed at Hermione.

"Harry, I have to go back across sharp at one, and you know the hospital has anti-Apparation Wards excepting Field Healers, so either we get to the bottom of this or I'm out."

"Fine," Harry grumbles. He taps his finger on the table to write again.

"_It's top secret now, but Malfoy's cast a Dark Ward around the Manor."_

"_How do you know it's Dark?"_

"_Because it absorbed my blood. And Bill said it's Dark. Blood Wards are usually Dark, aren't they? _"

"_Usually doesn't mean all. But Bill's a credible expert. Anyway. So I believe Unspeakables are involved? _"

This was what made Hermione such an attractive conversationalist. One says barely a couple of sentences and she has the whole picture figured out with astounding accuracy.

"_Yeah. I've been inside, actually."_

Hermione casts a Tempus. "_We're running short on time, Harry. I shouldn't have teased you. Give me the bits I need most."  
_

_"Blood's the key inside. My blood worked better than Bill's, but Bill says only Magical Creatures have that property. Which is strange because I'm not a Creature. Oh, and there were tentacles. They appear to let you in or throw you out. And something's wrong with Malfoy. He has hyperventilation, and falls into some kind of catatonic sleep at times."_

Hermione takes a piece of parchment out and taps it with her wand. Words appear on them. _Tentacles, Blood, Creatures, Hyperventilation, Catatonia._

"Any other phenomenon I should be aware of?" Hermione asks.

Harry struggles, but lets his best friend have the final piece of the puzzle.

"Yeah. When he grabbed my wand it shot light sparks. Like Ollivander's."

"Excellent. We have detailed and unique information which will considerably filter down the amount of research materials. I'll do some reading and contact you in two days."

"Two days?" Harry says disappointedly.

"Two days, and that's because I'll take the Draught of Sleeplessness without risking my shifts. I don't know how I'll cope after that, but, knowledge calls. See you, Harry."

Hermione stands. She turns back before she walks out.

"Speaking of which, Ron will be back tomorrow. So do some research of your own with him. Start with Laetitia Dallion's Warding Book of Wards. You need to dispel a random Ward each time you open the book, so don't close it when you open it the first time."

"Right. Gotcha."

"Bye, Harry."

As Hermione walks out of the cafe, Harry downs his now cold tea and Apparates near Hogwarts. Research should always start in the Restricted Section, shouldn't it?

==========


	7. The Books

After exchanging some customary greetings with McGonagall to get a guest pass, Harry heads to the Library. He encounters Madam Pince in a circle of SIlencio, busy Charming a stack of books, no doubt to hex the students who mistreat or disrespect the Library's books. Harry clears his throat, earning himself Madam Pince's hawkish frown at the unpleasant noise. When she spots Harry, Madam Pince waves her wand so that the circle of Silencio extends to cover Harry as well. She glares at students looking their way curiously. The students quickly bury their noses back into their books.

"Mr Potter. Or should it be Auror Potter?" she says.

"Madam Pince, it's good to see you again."

"Here for the books, then?"

"Yes, please. I have the slip from Minerva."

Madam Pince crinkles her nose. Her sallow, parchment-coloured skin there wrinkles more than Harry remembers. She's getting old, Harry thinks.

"Tell me, Mr Potter," she says. Harry notices she's chosen Mister over Auror. He feels smaller. "Why have you come to bother my poor books when the Ministry has its own archives?"

"Because Hogwarts Library is one of the five best in England?" Harry tries pathetically.

Madam Pince doesn't look impressed. And she says it. "That isn't answer enough, Mr Potter. You expect me to believe you Apparated all the way for some books in a Scotland castle, when you could have perused the Ministry Library steps away from your office doors in London?"

In her old age, Madam Pince resembles a vulture more than ever. Her hooked nose bears down on Harry as a vulture locks onto a dead frog.

"I won't ask because I'm guessing this is Auror business," Madam Pince worries her lips. "But I'm fairly sure whatever you're looking for, the Ministry Library has better resources."

"_Secrets of the Darkest Art_," Harry says. Madam Pince's eyebrows nearly touch her hairline.

"That book is no longer available in this Library, Mr Potter. I thought you and your friends took the book from Professor Dumbledore's office?"

"That wasn't what I meant," Harry says quickly. "But the Restricted Section did house the only copy of it at some point. That's how Voldemort learnt about Horcruxes. There were books here no one could find elsewhere."

"_The Darkest Art_ wasn't supposed to be kept in _this_ Library out of all the places," Madam Pince says. "It is only a sickening coincidence that my predecessors lacked the common foresight. Dumbledore was wise when he removed it from the reach of students."

"I couldn't throw off this feeling that I had to come here to start my research. This is the place where Voldemort started his, isn't it. I have the slip. I'll just have a quick look with an _Accio. _I'll be gone before you realise it."

Madam Pince regards him intently. "This is the holy ground of knowledge for budding Wizards and Witches. I am aware of everything going on in this library. "

"Of course you are," Harry concludes with either finality or sarcasm. He gives the slip to Madam Pince, who examines and returns it to Harry with a nod.

"If I were you," she says, "I wouldn't put too much hope in the Restricted Section. It's not the same."

Harry motions for Madam Pince to continue.

"After you left, Mr Potter, the Professors decided to rethink the curriculum of the school. We gathered during the holidays and scoured Hogwarts Library for any--and I emphasise, _any--_book that dealt with the deeper dimensions of the Dark Arts. We wanted Hogwarts to be a place to protect students instead of dangerous secrets. Voldemort's ascension... the faculty were responsible to some extent. The Restriction Section now holds what adults would call mundane texts. Recipes of addictive recreational potions, grimoires on post-NEWT-level offence spells, some introductory texts on the Dark Arts just enough for precaution. You may check if you want to be absolutely sure, but I fear it will only add to your disappointment." 

Harry feels as if someone's yanked off the carpet from under his feet. He did put his hope in the Restricted Section. He followed Voldemort's research track as Tom Riddle because he believed in Riddle's genius, although his mind doesn't let him word his thoughts to such repulsive clarity. It's only been five years since the Second Wizarding War ended, and three had been for Auror Training. Unbeknownst to him, Harry owed much of the resourcefulness in his career by learning from Voldemort's experience second hand. He tracked down Dark wizards in relative ease because deducing insidious minds is not unusual for him. But with this resource exhausted, the Ministry Library it is.

"Thank you, Madam Pince," he says. He leaves the pass on her desk.

"We found 61 books on the Dark Arts that would shock even the most learned minds. Each and every copy one of a kind." Madam Pince says at Harry's retreating back. Harry stops.

"Sixty-one books," Harry repeats, and Madam Pince nods in affirmation. "On the Dark Arts," Madam Pince nods again.

"Did you dispose them?" Harry asks. His heart races.

"By Morgana, no, Mr Potter. I told you, each and every copy one of a kind. The only one of its kind. Dispose... books? How can you even utter such heinous phrase?"

"Where are they now?" Harry shoots bluntly.

"The Ministry put in an exclusive request for books on Dark Offence, which most of the copies were about, so most are in the Ministry Library by now, no doubt."

"Most," Harry said.

"Yes. Most. We donated the remaining two books on Dark Defence to Dumbledore's long-time friend. She wanted some texts on wards, I believe. She was an expert of Magical Defence back in her days, and the nature of her work requires some insight on the Dark Arts. She's left the academia for quite some time and has been forgotten, but still does private research every now and then. Not someone who you would know without a specific interest."

"Madam Pince, could you give the name of this researcher, please? And the title of the books, too."

"Why not. She goes by Candice Johnston after her late husband's surname. I'm sure you've met before. She's the Minister's secretary."

"Wait a minute. Candice? As in the grumpy old granny with the knitting needles? She's an expert on Magical Defence?"

"I don't know if knitting is her hobby, but she's Dumbledore's age, that's for certain, and she worked with him a few times in the past, I heard," Madam Pince says, glaring disapprovingly at Harry's lack of respect. "Albus's portrait in Professor McGonagall's office would know better."

"No, you've told me so much; I doubt I need more information," Harry says. "Thank you. It was right to start here."

Madam Pince opens her drawer and browses the catalogues. She squints into a piece of parchment. "The two books: _Wards of the Soul_ and _Untold __Shadow of the Noblest Magicks. _I'm not familiar with these texts, so you will have to inquire yourself."

Harry writes the title on his notes.

"If that is all," Madam Pince says while brandishing her wand. The circle of Silencio withdraws to cover her and her beloved, menacing books that once upon a time menaced Harry and Ron in their all-nighter studies, Hermione glowing at her distressed friends. Harry smiles inwardly.

As he leaves the library, Harry wonders why the Minister didn't direct him to Candice if she has been a Magical Defence expert all along.

==========

A return to the Minister's office for the second time doesn't give him the most pleasant experience. Powerful individuals seem to have a limit on daily availability, and not even his own name could give Harry a free pass into Kingsley's office. Only this time he isn't here to see the Minister. Harry ignores the envious looks some of the Ministry employees throw him as he approaches Candice's desk.

"Candice," Harry greets the old secretary who is rearranging her hair into a tighter bun. The glossy silver hair ends in a slightly darker bun of steely grey. Silver grey--Where has he seen that colour? The colour of glittering frost on the Manor's window panes. The colour of Malfoy's eyes, too. He wonders why he's reminded of Malfoy every now and then.

Candice doesn't ignore him or feign a belated deafness. A magnifying glass in hand, she is peering over some sheets of paper on her desk inscribed with tiny sentences that Harry couldn't read plainly. "Mr Potter," she says, not looking at him. "The Minister isn't in his office this moment, unfortunately. Surely you know he's a very busy man?" A demure sip on her tea brings the annoying insincerity of her office manners to a whole new level. 

Harry tries to remind himself of the necessity to be civil with this old woman whose mission in the Wizarding World seems to be getting on his nerves.

"I'm actually here to see you," Harry says.

That makes Candice put her magnifying glass down. Harry notices the tool is magical. Words magnified on the convex glass flash in highlighted red and green.

"Me?" Candice asks, genuinely bewildered. "Why would you want to see me?"

_Exactly,_ Harry thinks, but instead plasters a good-natured smile that accentuates his jaw. Ron said it made him look like this bloke in Chudley Cannon Calendar (C3) for Witches.

Candice grimaces.

Harry immediately erases the smile he forged instinctively. Fine, if that's how you want to play this game.

"I heard you acquired two books from Hogwarts Restricted Section when the professors cleared the place," Harry says.

"Yes. Madam Pince is an excellent librarian, and the predecessors before her. Those books were in excellent condition, with Preservation Charms renewed at exact intervals. But how is this any of your business?"

"The books might help me solving a case. A case that the Minister put me on. I'm confused, why didn't he refer you if you're really a Defence expert?"

"Irma is an excellent librarian, but too much time alone has left her inept in social skills, I see-- I never have imagined you would run a background check on me, taking advantage of Irma's naivete."

"Not exactly what you would call a background check. I mean, who would've known you're a scholar?"

"Pardon?" Candice narrows her eyes.

"Oh, no offence meant," Harry says quickly. "Anyway, those books, Candice. Could I borrow them?"

"You _could_ not," Candice replies, and Harry is taken aback at her reluctance to assist an Auror investigation. But his bewilderment subsides when Candice continues,

"You may not borrow those books, because I have an urgent need of them. But you may visit me and peruse the books if you want," Candice says. A sheet of paper slides and drops from her desk. She rises with an _oomph_ and bends to pick the paper up. Harry picks it and returns it to her desk.

"Thank you. My waist is killing me, as always," Candice says. "Consider this an invitation, Mr Potter. I've some business this evening, but you can visit my house tomorrow. It's weekend, so I'll be tending the garden while you read my books. Make sure not to disturb anything in my house while you're about your business."

_Yeah right. There's no way Candice would invite someone sweetly. _

"Okay," Harry chirps in an exaggerated enthusiasm. "I won't touch, eat, or drink anything. I'll only touch the books. I know we're not on best terms. Does this have to be so private? You could lend me the books, it's not like I would pawn them off to Knockturn Alley. This is for official business, Candice."

Candice regards Harry with an inexplicable expression. "Mr Potter, you truly are a clueless Auror, aren't you."

Harry bristles at Candice's blunt insult. It's his turn to stutter, "P-Pardon?"

Candice ignores Harry's offended, flushing face. "Do you know the titles of the books?" She asks him.

Harry wonders if this is what criminals in investigation feel. And he's certainly not incompetent. He has 100% catch rate. He's the most powerful Field Auror in history. And Candice is just a grumpy old lady sitting, knitting, and grumbling on her comfy desk all day long.

Harry counts to five to calm his nerves, and answers, "_Wards of the Soul_ and _Untold __Shadow of the Noblest Magicks._"

"Yes. _Wards of the Soul _and _Untold Shadow of the Noblest Magicks._ You realise these are Dark Magic books?" Candice asks again.

Harry's fuming now. "Why wouldn't you just say what you want?" He barks.

"Oh, but I want nothing," Candice says, smiling. She looks amused, much to Harry's annoyance. "If anything, perhaps I want you to know-- Mr Potter, even the school materials they sell at Flourish and Blotts have enchantments on them. What kind of complicated curses do you think were cast on these books by their nefarious authors? The more I see you, the more I feel you tend to think as if you weren't a Wizard. You said it yourself, I'm a Defence expert-- I am as sure as the morning sun over my garden that you don't know the first thing about dispelling curses as I do. Notice the titles, Mr Potter. These books will kill you if you open them in your usual empty mind. I do dislike you, but not enough to see a young man die for his idiocy. Visit me tomorrow. I do not wish to make my curse-breaking skills a public display, although the Minister knows my past vocation. You will read, and I will tend my garden."

"Your past? Does this have to do with Dark Magic?" Harry asks. It's always been his one weakness-- too much curiosity.

Candice's face loses the smile. "What part of _I do not wish a public display_ didn't you understand?"

"See you tomorrow, Candice," Harry says, and escapes the reception hall of Kingsley's office. He feels Candice's eyes boring into his back.

==========


	8. The Noblest Magic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> choaked is a spelling

"Yo, Harry!" It's Ron standing at the doorway of Grimmauld Place.

Ron is a welcome sight for Harry who is at his wit's end trying to figure out Malfoy's motives. As Hermione had once said, _two heads are always better than one, Harry _(she ignored Ron's snickering jape about _Right! __Now I know why Hagrid said Fluffy's a smart lil boy!_ ). Harry agrees with Hermione. Two heads are better than one.

"Heard you landed a fabulous mission this time," Ron says, touching a healed gash on his cheek. Harry notices the new scar. Dark curse. Wounds from Dark curses always left scars.

"Wanna take over?" Harry offers, just for the sake of it. They both know Aurors can't take over missions without orders.

"Nah, it's all on you, mate," Ron makes a genuinely horrified face. "It's Malfoy, Harry."

"Yet you're here," Harry grins. Hermione must have kicked Ron out of the couch. And their house. "How did you get that."

"This?" Ron touches his scar again. "So we tracked Demyan Graff all the way to Snowdon. Bastard had this entire Unplottable cave system underground. We did the usual drill--scan the area for traps, cordon off the area--checked and rechecked, spellworks didn't show any magical traps, so we commenced infiltration. Everything was fine until Alicia Spinnet stepped on something. Turns out it was a Muggle contraption, Harry. This thing they call booby trap--Graff actually succeeded conditioning a curse trigger with that thing--computer? Unspeakables were almost cumming on the spot it's actually possible. They wanted to question Graff first, those dodgy fools, but Robards refused. Anyway, body moved first, right, that's always what happens, isn't it, I pushed Alicia out of the way. Girl managed to set a Protego on me as she fell--must be Chaser reflex, yeah? But it wasn't too strong because she was, well, falling. Graff confessed the trap was meant to decapitate victims."

"Ron!" Harry stares at Ron with an open mouth. He realises it's pure luck he's even talking with Ron today. Harry wants to say Ron shouldn't have risked himself, think of Hermione, think of him, think of Molly--but then, what would that mean for Alicia Spinnet? Should Ron have left her to die? So Harry doesn't finish his words. Because Ron's right: _body moves first, right, that's always what happens_. Like when he saw Malfoy about to freeze to death. He moved without thinking. No, that's not true. It's especially when Malfoy's concerned his brains stop thinking altogether and let his hands and feet do the thinking.

"Yeah, I know," Ron says sheepishly, touching his scar again.

"Well," Harry musses up his own hair, sighing heavily. "Well. At least you're sporting a scar too." Harry's smirk is half-hearted as he points to his own scar. Another life almost lost. Another friend--no, Ron's more a brother--family almost lost. _Master of Death my arse_, Harry thinks. _Accepting death my arse_, Harry thinks. He wishes the images would stop flooding his mind. A funeral with Ron's broken body hidden inside a coffin. Hermione's blank face. Molly's uncontrollable weeping. George looking like that day, that day when Fred died--

"Harry?" Ron's concerned face is the anchor that brings him back to reality. Yeah, everything's fine, no one's dead. "Mate, you were zoning out a bit over there."

"Yeah, sorry, was thinking about my mission," Harry lies nonchalantly.

"The talk's going around, they say Graff's gonna get a life in the _suite_," The suites, as they came to be called by Aurors, are more comfortable cells in Azkaban for minor offenders or corrupt politicians, added in regards to a new legislation of Basic Wizarding Rights following the War.

"What? Graff tortured and murdered four people!" Harry balls his fists.

"His solicitor says the bastard's gonna negotiate. Divulge everything about magical computers and get his sentence commuted. And... I guess it does help his victims were all families of neo-Death Eaters. You know Graff's a bit of a poor sod. They killed his daughter. You should have seen him in his cell. Crying his eyeballs out about failing his revenge."

"And that makes it okay? Ron, it wasn't his victims who killed his daughter. You can't justify his crime just because his victims were related to the killers!"

"Harry, mate, I never said Graff was right, did I?" Ron's eyebrows shoot up to his forehead. "Why are you so worked up?"

Ron's question feels like a bucket of ice water. Right, Ron was just explaining the situation. He wasn't making a judgement. Right, why is he so worked up? Haven't Harry watched in controlled glee when those Purebloods were crying tears of anger and despair, their Death Eater family members sentenced to the Avada Kedavra? Wasn't he the one who thought, yeah, justice isn't dead, what goes around, comes around?

They killed Graff's newly-married daughter when she was on her way home after work, just steps before her house. Her Muggle in-laws had to be Obliviated because they couldn't understand how she could blow up into pieces without anyone hearing bombs. What became of her husband, Harry doesn't know. Maybe he went crazy, maybe he's gonna remarry if he's okay, he still has two children to take care. They had to scrape her pulps off from the fences the Muggle way because you can't simply Scourgify a victim's remains. Isn't Graff justified in his revenge? Well, not justified. But he had cause, at least, he's earned the right for the smallest bit of sympathy-- Like how people called for Malfoy's execution. He's far more culpable than Graff's victims, he was a Death Eater himself, aren't the families of Voldemort's victims justified wanting to see him dead? Malfoy, dead, eyes wide open, no longer silver, but dull grey, he once called him Potty, Scarhead, Gryffindork... and Saviour. He never knew Malfoy could play piano. He never knew Malfoy could be nice to house-elves. And Harry realises he's fooling himself. He's not worked up over some philosophical question of what's right and what's wrong, how far should justice be _fair_. He's angry at Graff because Graff is a vigilante. He's angry because the picture is so similar with Malfoy's dilemma, because it could happen to Malfoy. Someone could kill him.

Harry doesn't want to entertain that idea.

"This Malfoy thing must be getting on your nerves. Hell, even I'd be pissed off at the Minister if he made me wipe Malfoy's arse," Ron says, looking at Harry with renewed pity and understanding. Yeah. _This Malfoy thing_ is getting on Harry's nerves, but in another sense entirely. But Harry's not going to tell Ron anytime soon.

"Got to visit Candice after lunch," Harry says deliberately to change the subject.

"Lunch?" Ron immediately perks up.

"Yeah, but there's that Candice business after." Harry makes a face. "Sorry. I know Hermione sent you to help me out, but you don't have to come with me to Candice's. You barely had time to rest after your mission, you should go home."

"Nah, I'm fine," Ron says. "Mione hasn't slept in two nights looking into books and keeping her shifts. I can't idle around, can I."

That makes Harry feel worse. "Sorry," he says again.

"Oh, didn't mean that," Ron replies with a shrug. "Just saying. Mione would've refused if she wasn't interested."

"That's true, I guess," Harry agrees. He pats Ron's shoulder, directing him to the dining room.

Ron stomps there all too eagerly, not waiting for Harry.

==========

Candice is looking at them with an unpleasant expression, her gloved hands brown with soil. She points at Ron with her shovel. Although it's winter, Candice's garden blooms like it is mid-late spring. Her invisible breath shows there's a Warming Charm placed all around her garden.

"I don't remember inviting Auror Weasley," she says curtly.

"Err," Harry opens and closes his mouth like a fish. A sideways glance at Ron shows he's having more or less the same reaction. Ron shares Harry's sentiment against Candice. _In my experience, mate, _Ron had said once, _you need to cover your bollocks from ladies hooked on pink_. _Umbridge, Candice... you get me?_ Ron was not so delighted, however, when Harry quipped, _Yeah, Ron, I get you, you seemed to have omitted Lavender Brown though. Heard you talking to Seamus and Dean about her 'oral eloquency' back at school._ Ron's retort was, _so sayeth the bloke who'd love to have a go at pinky boys. Ferret turns pink under the sun, doesn't he, Harry, remember Quidditch match? _Harry scoffed openly at that, making exaggerated gagging sounds. However, what Ron doesn't know is that Harry had to gag himself with a mouthful bite of his blanket to stifle his very audible moans that night, during a private nocturnal session involving an imaginary Quidditch locker room, a Gryffindor Seeker with black hair and green eyes, and a sweaty, pink arse. Of course, Malfoy's arse must be pale, not pink, and Harry was by then an Auror and not a Gryffindor Seeker anymore, so his mouth-watering imaginary scene did not, Harry would tell himself repeatedly, did not necessarily feature himself and whats-his-name. And it's a taboo to find a Malfoy anywhere near the word _mouth-watering_. Where did that phrase even come from?

"He's here to help with the mission, obviously," Harry tries carefully. Candice looks unconvinced.

"I thought the Minister assigned this case exclusively to you, Auror Potter." Candice rolls her lips as if she'd chewed a particularly sour Bertie Bott's Bean.

Harry has no idea why this old lady makes things so bloody difficult. He's on Kingsley's mission, and Candice is the Minister's secretary, couldn't they make this a win-win game?

Just when Harry's temper boils up to his lightning scar and is about to burst out of his scalp pores, Candice grudgingly relents.

"A helping hand, then. In you go, gentlemen." Harry would like to tell her, would love to tell her, in fact, that he doesn't feel like being so gentle at the moment. And he's pretty sure Candice knows he's on the brink of explosion.

Like every space-tinkered Wizarding home, Candice's small wooden cottage is a spacious mansion inside. Flowers and plant pots of every colour decorate the interior.

"Smells like grass in here," Ron says, scrunching his nose.

"Why, thank you, Mr Weasley," Candice shows the smallest hint of smile at that. She doesn't seem to have noticed Ron's remark isn't meant as a compliment, or, if she has noticed, she has decided to take it as compliment.

"Those are some very nice flowers, Candice," Harry says between his teeth. He couldn't care less about flowers.

"Why, thank you, Mr Potter," Candice repeats the same reply she's given Ron seconds before, but this time it's miles colder. "You must miss a hot cup of tea after travelling through that cold weather."

"We Apparated, actually," Harry replies with a cold tone that could rival Candice's wintery attitude.

She ignores Harry and turns to Ron. "Auror Weasley, do you care for a warm cup of tea? Cupcakes, perhaps?"

The awkward expression Ron has been wearing melts away. A summery smile spreads on his face as if the freckles would erupt green shoots and pink petals. "Yes please, if you have something with chocolate, ma'am." _Ma'am, _Harry sneers inward, the only sign of his annoyance his flaring nostrils. He couldn't be more annoyed at Ron, the traitor. Why doesn't he know Candice is being nice to him just to rile Harry up?

For a moment there Harry's sure Candice's eyes shot towards his flaring nostrils. She adopts the guise of a welcoming granny and talks _to _Ron and _at _Harry: "Make yourself comfortable, please."

Harry wishes his life were free of Snapes and Umbridges, but it seems he is jinxed to meet a new copy each time one goes away. Candice puts her shovel down in one of the pots in the sitting room, then disappears behind the beaded curtain of her kitchen.

To Harry's surprise, Candice brings a tray of three cups, a pot of tea, and cupcakes, mostly chocolate.

"You did say, Auror Potter, that you will neither eat nor drink in my house," Candice says, feeling the warmth of her cup with her hands.

Ron directs an accusatory glance at Harry.

"But I must insist, because textual research is no simple feat. Sugar and an adequately filled stomach will help you think better. And I will get less questions."

"Merlin, Harry, these are better than Mum's," Ron munches through a cupcake. Which means, it's really good. And Harry has a terrible sweet tooth. He picks a cupcake reluctantly and nibbles.

...Yeah. It's really good. Especially the surprise middle where the chocolate melts on his tongue.

Lips downturned mockingly, eyebrows raised jubilant, Candice displays the face of triumph. Harry, on the other hand, gulps down the delectable bite of defeat. Defeat tastes bittersweet. Like dark chocolate.

"Enjoy," Candice says, rising from her seat with her cup. Ron nicks his third cupcake. "Come to my study when you're done. The entire floor above, so you won't miss it."

==========

The floor above is a veritable library. Books with weathered covers line the many bookcases, while parchments filled with writing and diagrams are scattered on a large desk. More rolls of parchment are orderly stacked in boxes based on categories that only Candice would recognise.

"Let me remind you again," Candice says, "please don't upset the documents."

"Of course," Harry replies. He is dying to ask what Candice is researching, but he knows better than to wear out his welcome, so Harry keeps his mouth shut. Being a born inquisitor, however, Harry can't suppress the suspicion that Candice might, just might, be researching something illegal. After giving some thoughts over it he decides not to act on his groundless hunch.

"You'd get along with Hermione, ma'am," says Ron casually. Too casual, perhaps, because Candice makes no acknowledgement of it.

Candice Levitates a book onto the table. _No touching_, Harry thinks; it's evident she is taking great care to keep the books at a set distance from everyone. Her serious expression warns Harry and Ron: the books are dangerously lethal.

"Now," Candice says, drawing intricate patterns in the air, too quick and complicated for Harry's eyes to follow. It's impressive, despite Harry's feelings against the woman. She knew what she was doing and she was good. "I need both of you to pay attention. The curses set on this book are too cohesive with the pages. You could say it is the curses, in fact, that are binding the book, so to speak. Breaking the curses forcibly will destroy the book."

"So it's read and be cursed or don't read at all," Harry says.

"Exactly. All the more true because this book," Candice motions at _The Untold Shadow of the Noblest Magicks, _"was written so it would not be read."

"Why write it in the first place, then," Ron says.

"You'll find out when you read it," Candice says. "With advancement in techniques and magicks of Curse-Breaking, we can now study the contents of this book. You may have assumed it is a treatise or theory of magic, but in fact, _The Noblest Magicks_ is a travel narrative, elaborating in painstaking detail the many sacrificial Wards of the world."

Harry doesn't miss the chance. "Wait. Did you actually read the book?" It would save so much time if he could just ask Candice whether Malfoy's Ward is in the book.

"Not entirely, no, or I would have simply told you and foregone the trouble of an invitation, wouldn't I?" Candice replies curtly. "Curse-breaking doesn't happen overnight, Mr Potter. This is not some field duel where we throw barrages of spells that produce immediate effect, jumping and rolling to evade the next curse. We learn to think in reverse, unraveling the magical rules that a spellcaster has weaved successfully after trying hundreds or at length, thousands of times. It is art and science unto itself; it is like knitting, only in reversal. There are steps, there is patience. You should count yourself lucky that I managed a timely leeway into these books."

Harry thinks he's the epitome of patience for not retorting somewhere at 'jumping and rolling'. He doesn't like Candice belittling Auroring like that. Aurors put their lives on the line. 

Candice unclasps a pocket watch from her waist and sets it on the desk. The watch glitters and the hands start spinning madly, until the short one stops at 3 and the long hand at 12.

"...Three o'clock," Harry mutters.

"Three hours," Ron says. Candice nods with an affirmative smile. Harry is miffed. Not that he underestimates Ron, no, but how would Ron know these things when Harry doesn't?

"It's a Charmalarm," explains Ron. "Bill has one. Curse-breakers use it to know how long a temporary Counter-Curse lasts."

"I'll have to renew the Counter-Curse after three hours, during which you will study the contents. The Alarm will notify me in advance. Now, if you don't mind, I have a garden to tend."

"What about the other book? The _Soul Ward_?"

Candice laughs. _"Wards of the Soul?_ Oh, Mr Potter, I'm sure three hours are barely enough for you to go through the first couple of chapters of this one. And don't get your hopes up too soon. There is always the possibility you won't find what you need from these books. Whatever Draco Malfoy cast may not even be in there."

"I could help with the other book," Ron offers when Harry's elbow urges him.

"That would be efficient, true, but I only have one Charmalarm, unfortunately."

Harry grits his teeth. She could have said so in the first place instead of insulting him.

"Well then, gentlemen, see you in three hours," Candice rises with an _oomph_, massaging her aching waist.

The question that has been troubling Harry spills out of his mouth. Harry couldn't control it anymore, he needed answers.

"Candice, why didn't the Minister refer you to begin with?"

She stops in her tracks. "Just how in the world would I know that, Auror Potter?"

Harry is speechless. "You're his secretary."

"Does that mean I should read his every intention? My answer would be an assumption at best. Why don't you ask him directly?"

Harry is an Auror who's never lost a duel, but he knows he's lost this one. His gaze scurries back to the book like a rat, while Candice steps down the staircases like a moody cat.

Harry opens the book. Ron peeks in curiosity.

The first lines aren't what he expected from a Dark Arts book that kills its readers.

_With a burdened Heart do I start this Tale of mine Folly, having failed to undo the fatal Error that robbed the Light of Life from my Celia, my Darling, my Love. _

_ With a contrite Quill do I preserve this Tale of my Vice, for in Truth am I unworthy, having failed to save the Light of Life in the innocent Heart of my Celia, my Darling, my Love--_

_ Far have I traveled in my Search for the Key to my Celia's Heart--_

_ But the Key choaked the Light of Life from my Celia, my Darling, my Love._

_ Curse upon Thee, Love! For Thou are never the Noblest Magick!_

_ Curse upon Thee, Love! For the Bitterest Shadow trails thy steps!_

==========


	9. The Shadow

The misted glass of the window tells Draco maybe his room is too warm. The last of the Manor's central heating evaporated a lifetime ago when the plumbwizard Draco had called appeared simply to sabotage the Manor's housekeeping magic instead of fixing it. He had been all smiles and affable as if he didn't know Draco was a Malfoy, like it didn't matter at all. Draco had felt the precious five galleons he had been saving for emergency weren't wasted after all. He'd even thanked the wizard when he left because one answered in kind to courtesy. He'd found out later, the precious five galleons had been the price of his stupidity. Draco and his two elves had tried everything they could think of but the Manor's heating never worked again. But things aren't looking so bad. The Manor stands in the middle of a forest. Rinky makes sure Draco's fireplace never runs out of wood.

_It's not so bad, _the misted window seems to tell him. _It's not so bad. _He knows it's himself repeating that in his head.

Draco presses a hand on his chest as a red light flashes outside for a split second. He pulls the sleeve of his shirt until it covers his hand and wipes the steamy window with it. Outside, far beyond the gardens and almost fading from distance, wizards fire small lights the colour of rainbow at the Ward, like toy soldiers assaulting the castle of an evil sorcerer. He would have smiled fondly at the pretty lights were it not for the pinpricks beneath his chest intensifying with each beam of light hitting the barrier.

_It's not so bad, _the rainbow will-o-the-wisps seem to tell him. _It's not so bad_. He wants to believe it so hard and it's so easy to believe.

A brighter flash of blue light bursts on the red barrier. _A Reductor Curse,_ Draco thinks. The colours mingle into a beautiful purple. Draco's heart skips a beat, missing its rhythm. Something squeezes in there and his legs give out. But _it's not so bad_, he still gets to watch the show from his window. Not many people get to watch _the _show. Most aren't even aware when it happens. A witch would drop the ladle and ruin the potion she'd been brewing. A wizard would drop the bat and miss the bludger he'd been aiming. A witch would drop the shovel and crush the flower she'd been planting. A wizard would drop the wand and forget the spell he'd been chanting. And then they move on, unknowing. So _it's not so bad, _he still gets to know when it's time to move on.

He'd always wanted to be special. And he'd had the chance to be. Seeker. Prefect. And the roll downhill. Death Eater. Convict. Recluse. He still is special, in a sense. Not many wizards can boast seeing purple when it's time, can they? Most see white. Or black. Or green, like the War. Potter must have seen green. Shame he had to come back. Not really. He deserved another chance, Draco can admit that much. _Like I deserve purple. What's green plus red? Yellow. But there won't be any yellow, they can't fire green. See, Potter? I one upped you there. Green's so... average._

Green's so common. Draco sees it everywhere. The canopy of the forest around the Manor. The pilled braid of the rug on his floor. The light of the wands in his dreams, soaring inch by inch, reaching Father and Mother in slow motion. Father had crushed him in his arms just the hour before, he'd tapped his shoulders and said, _you're the pride of the Malfoys. _Mother had dressed in her best robes, she'd pinched his cheeks and said, _you'll live, all is well_. And then the green lights were flying so fast, they were dead before he could say anything, and the spectators cheered, neither the judge's shout of _Silence! _and the executioner's menacing glare could stop them. In his dreams the greens fly much slower, there is still time for him to step in, cover his parents with all of himself, but the beams fly through his body like he's a ghost. Every night, every dream, he fails to save them once again.

Family Above All, was their motto, wasn't it? It feels so wrong, so wrong not to bathe in the green that showered his parents. Green's so average, what's so special about him that it takes so long?

Green's so average, _so it's not so bad, it just looks bad._

Like a pair of eyes "as green as a fresh pickled toad". Draco laughs despite himself. The Weaslette had really outdone herself in Hogwarts with that poem. It's nearly as good as Draco's own "Weasley is Our King".

Draco thinks he can almost forgive Potter his Veritaserum gig for making this so funny. Life, after all, is a piano piece. It's merry here, heavy there. Slow and fast. Soft and loud. Left and right. Repeat and return. You'd think the end is written on the sheets, but you don't know how you'll end the recital. Like his _moment_. As a kid he'd imagined the end would come when he's as hoary-haired as Dumbledore. As a Death Eater he'd imagined the end somewhere between the endpoints of the Dark Lord and Potter's wands. Who could have guessed the end would come amidst pretty fireworks?

Draco hums _his eyes are as green as a fresh pickled toad _and grins as he sees a rush of blinding white.  
A stab of pinprick. It's squeezing harder. It's getting difficult to breathe, perhaps the room's too warm.

Outside, the red Ward still refuses to collapse against the torrent of spells.

==========


	10. The Revelation

They still have an hour remaining until Candice's Charmalarm would ring when a Patronus bursts in, passing through the wall. "It's Bill's," says Ron, clicking his tongue at the shining animal.

The Patronus cocks its head and hovers to Harry, speaking in Bill's voice. "Come ASAP. Ward reaction. Unspeakables." Having completed its task, the Patronus dissolves into spectral wisps beyond the ceilings.

"You going?" Ron asks without expecting an answer as Harry pushes the book to his side, rising from his seat.

"Yeah. Things must be getting serious," replies Harry anyway.

"I know. That's his urgent voice, like that night when he and Fleur forgot to Silence the guest room," Ron snickers. "Wolf howls and bird clucks all night, Harry, imagine that. One of the few times Mum refused to cook breakfast. Don't tell Bill I called Fleur bird, he hates that. By the way, mate, am I supposed to read this?"

"You did offer to help," Harry says quickly, right now not really caring whether Ron would doze off or read in his stead, and caring even less for the audibility of Bill and Fleur's nocturnal flagrante delicto.

Ron blows a mouthful of air, looking up at Harry. "And there's still the book Mione wants us to read," he says. "Merlin, I thought we could stop studying once we actually became Aurors. I'd choose manhunt over this any day."

Harry shrugs. "That about failed when you were born." Ron doesn't seem to realise they've never stopped studying. They merely substituted the word with other more pretentious terms. Terms such as 'investigate' or 'espionage'. Investigate Draco Malfoy. Might as well be _study Draco Malfoy_. Longer stuff can hide things, Harry knows now in his early-life crisis. Extended work hours clear the suspicion of incompetence. Stretched stories cover up the horrors of field work.

Study Draco Malfoy.

Once, Harry would've throttled the first person who told him that. A gust of tailwind follows his hurried steps down the staircases, swinging and swaying the ivies on the wall. Candice is crouching in her garden outside, uprooting a particularly stubborn plant that clings to the soil with everything it's got. It's whining a little, and Harry covers his ears in case it decides to scream. Garden Plant Kills Harry Potter is a headline he really doesn't want his name in.

"It's not a mandrake, Mr Potter," Candice says, wearing a weird expression between a laugh and a frown.

"What is it then," Harry's replies automatically, heading towards Candice's fence.

"A weedrake. Nasty weed can destroy a garden in a fortnight," A merciless swish and flick of the wand incinerates the poor weed. It screams in fire, face wilting and shriveling as the flame licks its root. Harry scratches gardening off from the list of potential hobbies in his mind.

"There's been a development, would you let Ron stay if you don't mind, thanks," the words leave Harry's tongue smoothly like they were prepared in advance. He waits a bit to see if Candice would shout her refusal over the creak of the gate's hinges. When he hears nothing but her steady shoveling and the occasional shriek of burning weedrakes, Harry Apparates away to Malfoy Manor.

==========

What he sees is more or less the same as when he visited the first time, only there are no Aurors present because Kingsley had them withdrawn. A group of hooded Unspeakables are _dueling_ the Ward, while Bill watches from the side helplessly. Bill's ears twitch as he sniffs the breeze. He turns to face Harry, a toothy grin of evident ease on his face. Bill's emotions tend to swing from end to end since he had contracted lycanthropy. 

"Harry! Man, I didn't expect you to come so soon," he says. "I smell Ron."

"Yeah, I was with him just now. He's still helping the research. Were you here the whole time?" Although he's talking to Bill, Harry's gaze is trained hard on the Unspeakables. The pink light of a _Diffindo _and orange flame of a _Confringo _hit the Ward. Two enormous, glowing tentacles bubble out from where the spells made contact. They harden into crimson spikes before launching at the Unspeakables. Harry is on the ready to cast Shield Charms just in case, but other Unspeakables come to the rescue of their colleagues first.

"Those bastards basically camped here. I can't lose, can I," Bill says. "They're hooked on Disintegration Magic this time. Reducto, Diffindo, Confringo--magic that reduces or destroys solid matter."

"I know what Disintegration Magic is, I'm an Auror," Harry says loudly. He doesn't like where this is going, the Ward's reaction is too aggressive. The Unspeakables could use it to prove that the Ward is harmful to the public. "Sorry," he adds, "I wasn't... I didn't mean to yell." Harry hopes he didn't get to Bill's wolfish side. The last thing he needs is a fistfight with Ron's big bro during a mission.

"No offence taken, I smelled you've been on edge." Bill says. "Go stop them. I couldn't make them listen without legal authority."

Harry runs towards the gathering of Unspeakables. He casts a large _Protego_ to counter the barrage of spells.

"Mr Potter!" An Unspeakable's angry voice pierces the brief silence. "What do you think you're doing?"

"Deflecting spells," Harry answers. "But I could say the same to you."

"We," he motions to the entire hooded figures present, "represent our Department to test the properties of Disintegration on Magical Phenomenon DM-1."

"Wait, what? DM-1?"

"The Department of Mysteries has elevated the magical barrier surrounding Malfoy Manor to the status of a Phenomenon. As you no doubt are aware, we have an incontestable right to observe Magical Phenomena for the betterment of the Wizarding World. DM-1 is the official code of documentation, in this case. So might I suggest you, Mr Potter, to let our personnel work in peace."

Ah. Harry thinks he's figured out how to deal with this one. He was almost Sorted into Slytherin, after all.

"You've got some real deal creativity if DM stands for Draco Malfoy. Or is that the Department of Mysteries?" he teases, but the Unspeakable ignores him.

"So, how far did you all get with Malfoy's, _ahem,_ Phenomenon DM-1 except duplicating lots of wiggly twirly tentacles? Care to share?" The Unspeakable ignores him again. But this time, others shift on their feet. _Good_.

"I could be persuaded to participate, if you want some quick results. I've been in there." This time, all Unspeakables turn to face Harry.

Harry winks confidently. Inside, he desperately hopes he'd looked as tough as Charlie Weasley. "Provided you _stop_ fiddling with the Ward until I'm back."

A short Unspeakable approaches his/her leader and whispers something. Harry smirks.

"Very well, Mr Potter," the leader says, "we will be on standby until you return. You must realise, however, that this agreement amounts to official cooperation. When you reemerge from the Ward, you must divulge what you have learned without omission." The Unspeakable, however, imitates Harry's remark sarcastically: "Provided you _can_ enter the Ward again. Your... how should I put it, ejection last time was rather spectacular."

"Fine, fine, just sit around your campfire and roast marshmallows," Harry quips rudely, trying not to show he felt that blow. "Don't sing, though. Not sure whether I can handle it."

Bill pulls him into a bear hug when Harry returns to his side of the camp. "Mate, you so rocked my fucking tail," he says, whooping into the air. "I could tear apart a rabbit," he says, ruffling Harry's hair. Harry checks just in case. He lets out his breath only when he sees there is no fluffy cute fifth limb jutting above Bill's butt.

"I don't even know if I can get in there again," Harry's shoulders slump.

"Why don't we test first then," Bill offers. Harry rolls his sleeves and lends his arm to Bill, who makes a little cut on his palm. Harry waits until blood flows, and touches the crimson Ward as he did before.

The surface of the Ward around his hand shakes and waves like raging sea. Harry waits for the wet, sinking sensation, but he only feels a tingle of electricity on his hand. The Ward isn't letting him in, but it also isn't spitting him back, almost as if it were having trouble deciding.

"Is it working?" Bill asks. Harry mouths, _I don't know_.

"I'm starving," Bill says. "I'd really like that rabbit now. Maybe I'll go hunt some."

Hand still eaten by the Ward, Harry imagines Bill ripping a rabbit's head off with his canines. Harry makes a face inadvertently.

"What, it's a good idea," Bill grins. "From the looks of it I doubt Malfoy has a full cellar either. Catch a couple of rabbits, bring him some, he might want to talk then."

Harry was about to retort not being in the mood for stupid werewolf jokes when he realises Bill wasn't joking. He is actually waiting for Harry's reply.

He has a point. Malfoy's elf, Mipsy, did say something about limited supplies. And Harry was a right git when he was last in there. Yeah. It's not a bad idea. Perhaps he doesn't need to hunt rabbits, but he could get some groceries. At least to refill what he's eaten. He doesn't want to be indebted to the ferret.

Suddenly, the Ward stops rumbling like a wounded lion. A soft, wet, sinking feeling pulls Harry inside. _Not now, _Harry thinks. _I should get something for Malfoy first_. 

The Ward lets him go.

And just like that, Harry discovers another property of Malfoy's Ward: It could read his thoughts.

Harry pulls Bill into a bear hug. "Mate, you so rock my fucking tail," Harry says, ruffling Bill's hair.

"No idea what's this about, but get me a rabbit, then," Bill says jokingly.

"Get you something better," Harry says, turning to Apparate away once more.

Bill looks puzzled. "Hey, where are you going?"

"Diagon Alley. Tell the Unspeakables not to try anything, I'll be right back."

==========


End file.
